A Remembrance of Things Writing Camp - P.A.W. Print

The call for submissions by the National Book Foundation's Summer Writing Camp worked like a vibration cast in the universe. Some writers were told by word of mouth. Online visitors stumbled upon the program at the foundation's website. I had the information forwarded to me by a friend from an online community not focused on writing.


David Rimmer. photo, Meredith Andrews

The size of the Summer Writing Camp, an intensive program that started with 12 writers at a YMCA in Silver Bay, New York, has grown to almost 50 participants over the course of 11 years. It is now held at Bennington College, a small liberal arts college in the verdant mountains of southern Vermont. Free for writers who can't afford the tuition and traveling expenses of most multi-day workshops, the foundation didn't require a long list of published works, a certain level of education or inside connections.

I applied to the workshop as a way to move past the plateau I was experiencing as a writer. I had frequented open mic's and saw the same faces every time. Technically, I was no longer a novice but still had a long way to go before experience would settle in. I had had featured readings, won a poetry contest at Power 99FM and self-published a chapbook, The Rites of Individual Passage. Barely making the February 20 deadline, I was accepted at the end of April for the July 6 to 14 experience.

I received books and assignments in the mail to be completed by the start of camp. The books included works from the foundation's resident authors, Cornelius Eady, Kimiko Hahn, Jacqueline Woodson and Norma Fox-Mazer. Later, books and articles written by counselor-writers Lenard Moore, Paulette Beete, Robin M. Caudell, Ann Angel, and camp director Meg Kearney were delivered.

Books I received in the last shipment were written by guest writers Catherine McKinley and David Rimmer. On the camp's website, the foundation stated that participants would spend several days intensely concentrating on writing and reading, forging the "writing life." My "writing life" was currently a mundane job by day, and the practicing of my craft at night.

Cornelius Eady. photo, Miriam Berkley.

On July 6, the bus the foundation had chartered left for Bennington. During the drive, I watched gray, concrete buildings and highways morph into green mountains and farmhouses. The leaves and grass were like water colors running horizontally across a canvas. When the bus drove through the college's lush landscape of giant trees and grass ornamented with small clusters of buildings, we were given our assignments and met our roommates. It was time to unpack before jumping into our first session.

We were split into four groups. Each group worked with one poet and one fiction writer during morning and afternoon classes, which lasted two hours. My group was facilitated by the poet Eady. Since my writing had concentrated on poetry for three years, I thought this class would be easy--- like writing in my sleep. But the next three-and-a-half days focused on in-class writing and revisions executed at a breakneck pace. For a few days, we produced work based on themes given by Eady. I surprised myself by producing half decent poems on-demand. Given the intense pace, I had to write, and revise ASAP, even if it meant a temporary loss of enjoyment for the craft. We were also issued a final project, a poem about a famous person of our choice. My submission was a poem about Phil Lynott, the lead singer of 70's rock band Thin Lizzie.


Catherine Mckinley

On the 10th, writers were split into two groups, attending workshops with McKinley and Rimmer. McKinley's workshop focused on memoir writing, while Rimmer had participants read from his scripts and act out improvisational skits. Sunday, the 11th was the first day of the fiction workshop taught by Fox-Mazer. Anxiety started to set in, rivaling in its intensity the frustration I had experienced while completing my take-home assignments. I knew I could write fiction again, but self doubt and the chagrin caused by past memories of negative criticism have always won out over my belief in my skills. In this workshop assignments and revisions were executed at a pace that didn't seem to be as intensely set as it had been during Eady's poetry session. The fiction workshop's final project was a short story based on a pre-adolescent memory.

On the 14th, we packed. After having a final orientation with our counselor-writers and the camp director, we posed for the obligatory group picture. We loaded the bus and left sometime after 1pm. During the drive to Manhattan, I looked back and realized that the experience was not as nerve wracking as I had thought it was during my stay. I was deemed good enough to get into the program. In applying my fluctuating confidence, I completed it. It may have seemed more like boot camp than summer camp but the experience came complete with boots that gave me a kick in the right direction.

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