Damn friends. I hadn't even left Yaddo and they were wanting to set up dates with me—for dinner, to hear my new work, to show me what they'd been doing, and how did I want my frig restocked and when could they deliver a welcome home pie. It freaked me out. I'd had six weeks of pretty much no scheduled anything and now people wanted me to ink things in all over my beautifully blank calendar. I set my jaw and put everyone off. I tried not to be surly. I had a stubborn plan to wall off the hard-earned, precious silence inside me for as long as was possible.
At some point on the train ride home something changed about all this. I spent hours looking out the window which meant looking at my own shadowed reflection. I thought of how Yaddo had taught me not only how to catch bats, bet on horses, and play Bananagrams, but also that when I work deep into my writing, there is something there. This is such a relief. Not that I don't still, everyday, worry that I don't know how, never knew how to write. But now, in some quiet chamber of my mind, I see a writer's reflection.
And when palm trees and sand roads began to blur by the train window, I missed my friends in Gainesville – that whole raucous, supportive, pushy, so important to my writing bunch of them. Not only that, the whole making new friends thing worked so well at Yaddo, that I've decided to try it at home. So right now, I'm inking in dinner dates, dog play dates, lunch visits, and still, I'm writing most every day. It's not the same and I still yearn for my next time of extended immersion, but this life I have, it works.