Viable Paradise: A Travelogue (Part 1)

Since I seem to still have a few stray neurons willing to fire up when asked, I thought I'd record the full, excessively detailed, diarist's version of my week at Viable Paradise. I realize that this travelogue may be only of interest to myself and possibly those who attended with me, but (say it with me now) it's *my* blog and I'll tell overly detailed stories if I want to.

Ahem.

Once upon a time…there was a woman who lived a life full of distractions and yet still fancied herself a writer.

Wait, that's too far back. How about this:

The day I left for Viable Paradise, I walked out of the hotel where the Cash Machine Workshop was held and into the waiting airport shuttle feeling sorry for Josh, who remained behind to pitch our newly formed business to our fellow attendees. (More on this full and exciting experience in a separate post, I hope.) But I was also finally able to let myself be excited about the fact that I was finally heading off to Viable Paradise--I'd been carefully compartmentalizing and trying not to think about it for the last few days, because my mind had to be in the entrepreneurial business space, not the creative writerly space.

But I was finally on my way, and holy Moses was I excited! I still wasn't sure exactly what would await me out on Martha's Vineyard…would everyone else be far more accomplished and talented than me? (Yes.) Would my room-mates be nice? (Yes. Like long-lost sisters.) Would I make some new connections, perhaps even a friend or two? (Yes. Far more than I'd imagined.) Would the instructors be kind, or at least sympathetic? (Yes. And helpful beyond measure.) Would the jellyfish really be all that great? (Yes.) Would I learn about writing, about craft, about profession, about great sweeping life lessons that could change the way I think about myself and my art? (Yes. But I am getting ahead of myself. Enough foreshadowing, back to the narrative.)

The flight from Washington DC to Boston was completely uneventful. Everything on time, forgettable seatmates, no weather to speak of. Tiny yet spunky Cape Air flew me out to the Vineyard in a practically toy-sized prop plane, and the view was amazing. Due to the fairly lackadaisical attitude of Cape Air when it comes to ontime departures, we arrived on the Island around 30 minutes or so late. All that was fine so far, but what was not fine was that my suitcase was nowhere to be found at the Martha's Vineyard airport. Luckily they are nothing if not friendly and helpful at Cape Air, and after extended fact-finding, we determined that my bag was very likely still in Boston. The last flight over to the Island might or might not have said bag on it, but it would definitely come over in the morning, they assured me. The friendly clerk (who clearly wanted to go home at this point) took my info and promised that I'd get a call when the bag arrived. Then she locked up the counter and walked out, leaving me in a pretty much empty airport with no suitcase, and more importantly, no ride.

I had thought the VP staff would be there to pick me up, but since I'd come in late, perhaps they'd already been and gone. I tried to call my room-mate, Kim, since she was the only person I had a cell number for, but no answer. I tried calling the Island Inn, but their office was also closed for the day. What was an intrepid writer to do? I was already late for the inaugural dinner, which had started half an hour ago. I walked outside and hired one of the two big minivan cabs lounging around the airport entrance to take me to the Island Inn.

Once we arrived at the Inn, there was a bit of confusion as I tried to figure out where on the sprawling, idyllic grounds a big group of science fiction and fantasy writers might be gathered. Finally we (the helpful cab driver and I) spotted a downward flight of steps and a sign that said "meeting rooms" and I went to investigate. As I pushed open the glass doors I could see a circle of chairs and people in the large open room beyond. This had to be it. I walked into the big room just as the person standing in the middle of the circle looked around and called out "Dvorin? Is Dvorin here?" I spread my arms as I walked up to the circle and said in my best theatrical entrance voice "Yes! I am here! I have arrived!"

I really am fond of dramatic entrances.

I told the cabbie to leave and paid him and then came back in to sit in the circle of strangers. I'd arrived just as they were passing out the materials for the week (a pile of manuscripts to critique, a folder full of helpful Xeroxed articles, a notebook, and a rubberbanded set of writing utensils--highlighter, red pen, black pen, mechanical pencil). Dinner had already been consumed but the leftovers were still sitting around and I managed to stuff some food while listening to the introductions and instructions. My roomies, Kim and Dorothy, waved and smiled at me from across the way.

After the introductions and instructions for the next day, I thought that perhaps we'd be released and I could go see the room I was to be staying in for the week and chill out a little from the travel. But such was not to be, for the agenda now turned to the important bonding activity of playing "Mafia" and "Thing". So I pushed away the cranky traveler's whininess that was stalking me, and sat down in a circle with a bunch of strangers and began to accuse them of lying and murder. No better way to get to know someone than to start arguing with them about why they should be tested for "Thing"-hood.

By the time the first couple of games were over, I'd learned the names of approximately half of my fellow attendees and had laughed enough to get over any lingering whininess. I was still a bit cranky over my missing suitcase, but Kate, the superheroic and supremely nice head staffer, graciously loaned me some pajamas and a shirt for the next day. I headed back to the room with Dorothy but Kim stayed for another round of Thing. After showing me around the townhouse we were sharing (complete with scenic and potentially dangerous windy spiral staircase that led up to Dorothy's bedroom on the 2nd floor), we sat down to do our first couple manuscript critiques for the following day's group critique. Kim came back and joined us and then it was finally time to wind down towards bed in anticipation of an 8am bright-n-early start time the next morning.

Stay tuned for Day 2, in which Our Heroine receives her first one-on-one critique from a professional and spends the rest of the evening wandering around raw and bloody with the outside of her skin scraped off (the technical term for this feeling is "Brillo'd"). Does she ever recover? Does blood wash out of couch upholstery? Is it really true that there is no market for "conventional" fantasy novels anymore? You'll have to wait for tomorrow's installment to find out.