Page 40 - 2019 EMERGING WRITERS FELLOWSHIP ANTHOLOGY1

my fellow-fellow Jasmine, who passed me a note:

“You said you were waiting for your character to be honest with you. Maybe

she’s been waiting for you to be honest with her.”

Most of all, I learned that we don’t have to be so damn serious all the time. Craft can be
achieved in a casual manner; a camp atmosphere.

The Singing of the Sirens

Let me explain. It’s not so deadly serious; not like the mythical sailors who were smashed
on the rocks by the Siren’s song. But yes, I was serenaded by the land; by the indeginious

whispers that seemed very much alive. Pam suggested, “Be quiet and be open to
intuition.” Over the course of the week I listened. I heard from parts of myself I’d

forgotten, parts of myself that were unfamiliar, and parts of myself that I had buried in
fear. They began to connect, like a maze of roots given a chance to breathe, opening a path

to truth, honesty, and authenticity.

As an early riser, I set out my writer’s mise en place every night to slip out quietly in the
morning. Alone in the cafe I sat with my pencil, my composition notebook, and the far-

reaching silence. Outside the wall of windows, the morning fog cloaked the Pacific ocean,

gradually transforming my canvas from pitch-dark to a lighter gray. In essence it was a
renewal - an infinite clean slate where I could indeed be quiet and be open in the deepest

sense. One morning it occured to me that I was a 56 year-old little boy who had finally
found the friends he’d always wanted.

On my way to morning class, I would pass through the garden; past the farm with its

meticulous rows of planted vegetables, all which ended at a large concrete ramp that led

down to the other side of Esalen. The walkway was shaded by thick green bush and
sloping, ancient branches giving way to the mythical. Each morning I was enchanted by

draping veils of spanish moss which evoked places I’ve visited in story - to the Place
D’Armes in Anne Rice’s 19th century New Orleans, or to the mud-and-wattle cooking hut

in Edwidge Danticat’s 1937 Dominican Republic. This being Big Sur however, it turns out
that Spanish Moss was actually called “Lace Lichen.”

Page 41 of 48