What I didn't expect when I walked into the Workshop after an absence of 3 weeks, was a feeling of
coming home. Not the same feeling as
walking through the front door of a family home and sensing the lingering grind
and love of daily life. No, I walked
into the Cast Iron Workshop, a name we’re still settling into, and felt a rush
of creativity? Safety? Knowingness?
The gentle energy of other writers thoughts still resting on the
couch? All of it; further confirmed by
their books scattered about, and my curiosity in their writing projects.
In the fall I received word that a local
writer, Andrea, was looking for studio space to rent. Someone recommended on Facebook the workshop
my husband and I own and I became like a an excited puppy. Why hadn't I ever thought of using the
workshop? It’s far too large for one
writer, and my husband and I always imagined renting it as someone’s pottery
studio or bookkeepers' office. In my enthusiasm
I went to the local bookstore where I found some other creative humans to see
what they thought of a shared writing space.
Would other people be interested?
Really I was hoping to find Hannah, a writer acquaintance, to see if she
would want to participate. She wasn't there, but shortly thereafter we connected and she was enthusiastic too.
There were some kinks. Like heat. Also, the floor needed to be painted, we needed desks, a name, and a potty. The temperatures dropped making our fingers numb while we typed and our
computers slow. Even now, with a heater
installed I forget to turn it up when I come in. There’s something about being mildly uncomfortable
that focuses my mind. We began and are still talking about what the
Workshop is. First and foremost it's a place
for us to get our work done. There is some positive peer pressure from sensing work get done around you, and having a space where the only thing
you are expected to do is write—not do the dishes, watch Netflix, or bake a pie. Initially we were even hesitant about having
Internet access. But it's impossible for me to get work submitted on the domestic home front, much less reach out to other writers. After a month or so it became apparent that we were hindered by our inability to connect--so we connected.
If I had a masters in business instead of creative writing, I'd be laboring over a business plan right now. I don't, and instead I get to watch this project unfold and take shape as the Workshop fits the needs of its inhabitants. Already it is a success: three writers are more fully realized by simply having a place to be. Our presence validates each others efforts, and we each appreciate the beauty and strain of a good sentence. The Workshop has a generous amount of space, and when the moment is right, we hope others will stop by for an afternoon or weekend to tend to their stories, papers, grant deadlines--whatever it is that requires solitude. More on that later, I'm sure. It's part of the process of our project unfolding. This blog documents our writing lives, friendship, and potential of Cast Iron Press & Workshop.
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