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11.

The fact remains, I was too chicken-shit to talk to Pam Houston, the respected writer and

teacher Pam Houston. Without whiskey, without wine, I was too chicken-shit to talk to
Pam Houston. Too chicken-shit to ask her any questions, to make any comments, to even

say a simple thank you to her face. With the help of vodka or wine what might I have
said? With a few shots of liquid-courage what might I have asked or spoken?

12.

On our last night at the Writers Camp, the lot of us end up gathered at the large wood

table on the deck of The Lodge, pulling cards from Samantha’s “Animal Spirits” tarot card

set, a recent purchase from the Easlan gift-shop. It is all in fun. We hoot and howl and
laugh at the animal cards pulled – spider, mouse, oyster, shark. At each card pulled, we’d

hold up the photo, and Samantha reads the “energy” description of each animal spirit.
We each take a turn. It’s all in fun. The sun is setting and the week in this place is nearly

over.

I pull the Otter – an energy of playfulness and joy. I sit among everyone and laugh and

take it all in, this rural-New-Mexican girl with serious and unexpected ancias on the drive
into this place, and now I am suddenly pulling the card of joy?

*

“It’s very important to me that I help create space, to hold a place, for people to create

[writing]” Pam Houston speaks during one of her workshops, and I shift in my chair,
uncomfortable, somehow thinking she is speaking directly to me. I resist such a notion.

I resist such a generosity from a woman who states it is her life’s purpose to “teach”.

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