Who Were Those Mysterious Writers?

You may be wondering about the musician and authors I mentioned in the previous post.

The event was called Music and Memoirs, Story and Song, featuring Carrie Newcomer, Brent Bill, Scott Russell Sanders, and Phil Gulley.

Phil Gulley wins the Garrison Keillor soundalike award, by employing impeccable timing in his delivery, delightful storytelling abilities, and a most unusual voice. He could be on A Prairie Home Companion, except they'll probably never have him for fear he'll upstage Garrison.

Brent is the kind of person I'd love to sit and have coffee with, and I could probably easily arrange that. We have some mutual friends and he doesn't live far from me. His readings were conversational and warmly pastoral in that he was imparting some ideas and hope in a completely accessible style. In fact, it felt like we were sitting across the table from each other; except he did all the talking, which was fine because I didn't have much to say anyway.

Carrie's music is rich and full of imagery, unlike anyone I've ever heard before, with an unexpectedly low, full voice that complements the storylines of her songs. Captivating music, and she often smiles during the song, which is so inviting.

Scott Russell Sanders is an English professor at my alma mater. I can't remember if I ever took a course from him, though he was there when I was taking all of my requirements. College was such a blur. I'd have to look at my transcripts. My friend Nichole took a class from him and said he was her favorite professor. I stumbled onto a picture book called Warm as Wool that he wrote--historical fiction for children. I was so impressed to find something of such quality to share with my kids, then discovered our college connection. Now I'm ready to dive into his nonfiction for adults. He read from his most recent book, a memoir entitled A Private History of Awe.

After attending an event like that, I'm conflicted: inspired to write, but intimidated by such talent; warmed by a sense of connection, as if surrounded by kindred spirits, while wistful that I don't belong to a fellowship of artists like that.

I live in the suburbs. It's a convenient area to raise kids. The Belgian Wonder can commute to work and we have access to good schooling options. But suburbs are not commonly where poets and novelists congregate. I think of urban centers and college towns as a more likely hub to find a kindred spirit, and my life just doesn't take me to urban centers or college towns very often.

But if I spent all my time socializing with writers, I probably wouldn't be writing. And wouldn't that be a little situational irony?

I'd best get to work. When Scott Russell Sanders was writing about a diner, and Phil Gulley mentioned by name a tiny town that I could ride my bike to when I was growing up, images from childhood kept coming to mind. I remembered shooting a bb gun at a pole sticking up from the abandoned chicken coop behind my house. At night, I could see the lights of the city in the distance. Something is cookin' in my head. Not sure what. I need to explore it.

Time to write.