On Saturday, October 7, eleven NeWPers gathered in the afternoon at the Mill in Lincoln 's Haymarket.
They plotted courses,
formed groups, and streamed out into downtown Lincoln for the first ever Nebraska Writing Project Writing Marathon, "Eye of NeWP 2006."
They roamed, wrote, and shared, taking in art, ice cream, and ambiance at businesses and locales along the way. In the early evening,
they gathered at the finish line (Arturo's) for refreshments and a read-around.
Everyone left refreshed and recharged but wanting more.
Therefore, plans are underway for another writing marathon in the spring.
(The Finish Line below: Scott Knight, Robert Brooke, Dianne Kuppig, Jeff Grinvalds, Amy Wilson, Anne Walden, Beverly
Hoisted, Michelle Rogge Gannon, Susan Martens-Baker, Susan Malcom, and Deron Larson. )
If you missed the fall event, stay tuned to your friendly NeWP web page and new listserv for news of the next opportunity!
Excerpts from Susan Martens-Baker's Marathon Notebook:
2:09 pm The Mill
I'm sitting on the coolest chair in the place. A bright green chair with an Egyptian-style cat.
There is a moon in one corner and eyes on the back, staring into my shoulder blades. I love it.
Why are none of the other chairs painted? I imagine my derriere is absorbing cool, Bohemian vibes as I sit here,
hunched over this rickety table and thinking about writing...
2:53 p.m. On a bench inside the Creamery Building
An unbelievably beautiful staircase sweeps wide and winding before me. A painted tin ceiling above echoes its charm.
An entire line of little kids just snaked out from Paint It Silly into Ivanna Cone. This might cause a serious personal ice cream delay,
but what a brilliant sight! My derriere absorbs the fine turn-of-the-century vibe of a more ornate time,
comfy wooden slats curving my lower back into a satellite dish receiving signals of lost elegance and the sweet, toasty smell of waffle cones...
3:51 p.m. Arturo's
My green, fluorescent beverage sits atop a green, fluorescent table top painted to resemble a giant avocado.
My derriere sits perfectly between the firm plastic armrests in this patio chair, absorbing Arturo's cool, new patio vibe.
I'm feeling my inner Hemingway. Cozy earth tones surround me, adobe and lemon yellow softening the traffic sounds rising and falling from 9th Street...
If I could do this one day every month, I would be a happy woman. But I would settle for twice a year.
The Birch Family
by Jeff Grinvalds
Three silver birches rise from the earth,
one a spurning mother,
the strong armed father,
and in the center
a child with octopus arms
waving in every direction
all at once.
The mother birch glares at her insolent son-
and asks-- not to him, but the father,
"What are you going to do?"
Helpless, the father flexes his right arm
as he prepares to beat his birch son
into submission.
And as the father raises his wooden well-leafed hand to strike,
the frail son pleads, "No father. It's not my fault that I have
five arms--
it's not the way I want to be
but it is who I am."
And the father slowly but mercifully responds,
"It is no ones fault. Not even our own."
And yet the mother,
with her stiff and straight trunk
still
spurns.
'The Birches'
'Scorning Mother'
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