Dan Lyksett
I’m sitting on a Leopold bench at the edge of a clearing at the Write on, Door County writers retreat. It’s mid-afternoon, early August, and it’s the fourth day of my weeklong writer’s residency. I’m wrestling with the main character of a short story I’m writing. I know what he’s doing, but I don’t understand why. There is a truth he is missing. I am missing. Perhaps I don’t know him well enough. I’m hoping a walk along one of the trails on the 39-acre retreat or the butterflies flitting among the prairie flowers or the scolding of the blue jays will lead me to knowledge.
I have my notebook with me, but my computer is in the house I’m sharing for the week with two other writers, Katie Vagnino, who lives in the Twin Cities, and Sarah Stuteville, of Seattle. They are back in the house, writing. Both are educated and accomplished writers. Katie’s prose and poetry have been widely published and her first book, Imitation Crab, will be released by Finishing Line Press. Sarah is a former journalist who reported stories from the Middle East, East Africa, South Asia and the former Soviet Union, and her memoir pieces have been widely published. Both have taught writing on the university level.
And me? I took one college English class, fall semester 1970, freshman English Composition, taught in old Schofield Hall by a guy named Will Jennings. I only remember that nearly every Friday we wrote while he fiddled with a guitar. You might recognize the name. Will Jennings left teaching shortly thereafter and went on to become an award-winning songwriter, a Hall of Famer whose writing credits include the lyrics to “Tears in Heaven” and “My Heart Will Go On.”
I took the class pass-fail. I passed.
Full disclosure: I still don’t consider myself a “writer.” I’m a retired veteran newspaperman who is trying to become a writer and is appreciative of some small successes I’ve had along the way. A few years ago I attended my first writing workshop, one organized by the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild. After the first day I went home, sat on our patio sipping a beer and told my wife I wasn’t sure I was going back. I was intimidated by the smarts of those writers, their understanding of the bones, muscle and tendons it takes to craft a piece of fiction. I only knew about deadlines and the inverted pyramid; elementary truths like “Show, don’t tell” were new to me. The next morning I braved the country roads back to Cirenica, and I have benefited from the knowledge and generosity of the writers I met there ever since.
It happens again at Write On, Door County. The night of our arrival, Katie, Sarah and I sit at the picnic table on the deck behind the house getting to know each other and talking a bit about our plans for the week. I mention I’d brought some books to read including a friend’s manuscript I’d agreed to look over. I believe it was Katie who gave me a rather odd look and said, “It’s nice of you to use some of your time here for that.” It was the first inkling of something I was to learn. I’m here to write.
The next morning I open up a short story I started about a year ago. I once thought it was finished. But earlier this year my friend, novelist Nick Butler, was generous enough to give it a read. He basically told me, “It ends too soon.”
During my week at Write On, Door County, I never open another story, and I never read another word of the books I’d brought along. Katie, Sarah and I might see each other briefly during the work day, grabbing another cup of coffee or tea or a snack, but we are mostly in our own spaces. Working. Writing. I usually write with a classical music station playing in the background, but I swear off news and social media for the week, and I don’t want to disturb the quiet focus permeating the house. My radio stays silent.
We socialize in the evening, sometimes venturing out into the charms of Door County for a careful supper in the Age of Covid. One night Katie arranges for us to introduce Sarah to a traditional Wisconsin fish boil. But mostly we sit around that table on the back patio, sharing life stories and wine and beer, talking about goals, what we had done or hoped to do. And in the morning we go back to work.
As I sit on that Leopold bench, I am only yards away from The Coop. Norbert Blei is a Door County writing legend who worked as a reporter in Chicago for a time but became a renowned writer of non-fiction, fiction and poetry. He advocated for Door County and is revered there. He did much of his writing in the converted shack that is Blei’s Coop. It’s been moved here to provide an inspirational workspace for the visiting writers. I could write in the shack. During my introductory tour, Jarod Santek, the Write On, Door County artistic director, showed me where the key was hidden. But Blei accomplished much of what I aspire toward. I must earn my in.
“Maybe it’s the butterflies or the shorebirds I don’t recognize calling overhead but sitting at that bench I suddenly discover the truth my main character has been ignoring. I’ve been ignoring”
Maybe it’s the butterflies or the shorebirds I don’t recognize calling overhead but sitting at that bench I suddenly discover the truth my main character has been ignoring. I’ve been ignoring. I jot down some quick notes before the thought disappears and hurry back to my desk. From my window I can see across the street where workers are putting the finishing touches on Write On, Door County’s new Writing Center, a beautiful structure housing offices and space for writers to gather. I open my story and search for when my character might first suspect his truth, or perhaps where I hint at his lack of awareness.
It’s late afternoon on the last day of my Write On, Door County residency. I finish the first draft of the story. I save it, close it, and I have not opened it since. I’m letting the story breath, putting some space between it and myself so when I approach it again we can introduce ourselves as strangers. Discover if the truth still holds true.
I owe Katie and Sarah. Without knowing it, they taught me what a writing residency should be. I owe Write On, Door County. They generously share an inspiring space that moved me. And I owe the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild. They made it possible. I will try to repay these debts.