So this past Monday I went to the Writers' Harvest, an amazing event that our department put together to help raise money and collect cans for Feeding America. I happily brought my cans, listening to them clank in a tinny, musical way. The sun had long set when we got there and the venue, Ella's Folk Art Cafe, was alive and waiting. The building was two-stories, inviting and exotic with its artistic atmosphere and earth-tone colors. We all gathered around the first couple tables, taking in the colorful bar and metal sculptures; Ella's is usually closed on Mondays, so we felt special standing within its doors.
While it's always fun to talk about, I don't think we'll ever have an answer to the final, official cannon. The best thing about this is that all of us individually make connections with various authors. There's something cozy about this. You find an author buried somewhere on a shelf or in a pile and you are drawn in like all the magnets in the world are packed within the pages. It's as magical as examining the brush strokes of an old master's painting , more private than the discovery of a breathtaking band.
I'm wearing a mudmask as I'm typing this. My quiet smiles make the clay on my cheeks crack. It's a good night for thinking.