A Gathering of Writers

Yesterday, the Ozarks Electric building in Fayetteville was, once again, the scene of the NW Arkansas Writers’ Workshop. Published writers, wannabe writers, vocal writers, shy writers, all ages and genres gathered as we do each year. Admittedly, I stayed only for the morning session.

Dusty Richards, who has published his 150th book is an accomplished and popular writer. His book, The Mustanger and the Lady is being made into a movie. I’m eagerly waiting to see the film.

John Biggs, renowned author of several books, including Cherokee Ice, also spoke. He said his genre is called “magic realism”.

The last speaker before the lunch break was Velda Brotherton. Velda also has published many books. She enumerated twelve secrets of writing.

As you can see, I went to the workshop with my  friends, Darcy, Flora, and Ned. I like to think they made a good impression. Remember, by the way, that The Cemetery Club is now only ninety-nine cents. Or, if you prefer to listen to a cozy mystery or would like company on your trips, The Cemetery Club and Grave Shift are available as audio books.

I met several writers, some I never see anywhere else but at writers’ get-togethers so I hadn’t seen them for a long while. Others were new to me but full of hopes for writing successes. Aren’t we all?

After I came back home, I told Nemo about the experience. He wasn’t all that impressed. Even though he was a bit put out that he hadn’t been invited to go along with me, he forgave me when I shared a bit of my chicken sandwich.

I’m looking forward to introducing you to Darcy and Flora’s fourth adventure, Grave Heritage. What did the old movie reels used to say, “A Peek at the Coming Attractions?”

For a moment, time turned backward. It was 1942 and a young soldier was going off to war. When he returned, he would offer his heart and his future to the young woman he loved. In the meantime, the ring would wait, a symbol of fresh hopes and dreams and two lives that would become one. But fate intervened. Dreams dissolved and hearts were broken and the ring lay hidden in the drawer, waiting for the day a young man would slip it on his bride’s finger. That day never came.

     A mockingbird lit on the porch, imitating a trio of bird songs. Jethro nudged my hand and with one paw, poked the spools of thread. Mom and I gazed at the ring.  

     “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” I whispered.