Dear Friends —
Once upon a time there was an island. It wasn’t Hawaii, and it wasn’t Long Island, and it wasn’t Atlantis either. Well, not exactly. It was an island where the writers came to learn how to be better writers. Or how to teach would-be writers how to get better. Or they came just because they were friends with or relatives of a writer who came to write on this island.
The writers met with each other, and they drank, and they ate, and they talked and they slept (a little) and then they got up and did it all over again.
Then the writers met more writers — or — if they weren’t writers, they still ended up having an important story to tell.
For example, it turned out that the snazzy local pizzeria chef was a writer who had published a bunch of books on health and diet.
For example, it turned out that the woman with the braid at the breakfast place had a story to tell about her son who was in the jail across the street and who she had come to visit because she loved him very much.
“He’s a good boy,” she said over the scrambled eggs.
And one writer said to an another writer, “What could be more important than making friends? — it’s something I’m good at. I am good at friendship.”
Still another writer talked about an obituary he had read that said “she left behind a rich and varied circle of friends.”
Wishing you all a circle of stories and people to share them with.