When I told friends and family that I was going to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop for three weeks in July they’d routinely ask, “What will you be doing?”
Taking a class. Workshopping my novel. The first part of the answer was easy. But the living in Iowa for three weeks part was more stymieing—what would I be doing all day?
I knew all about what it’d taken to get there. The years and years and years of practice. The toil of perseverance. The luck of a random day in January when with snow piling up outside, I searched for the proper spelling of an author’s name whose writing I admired and there it was…summer in Iowa at a famed institution of literary learning. Yes, please. So, I applied. Months later when I was offered a spot, I was overjoyed.
But as the day to leave approached jitters bubbled up and out of me. Where the heck even was Iowa City? Who would the other students be? What if everyone was mean and I wanted to come home? Also, if I couldn’t answer a simple question like what would I be doing all day—why was I even going? Thankfully, I got on the plane with doubts and luggage in tow.
Upon touching down in the Corn State, the first thing I noticed was how holy HOT it was. By the time I’d walked the seven feet from my Uber to the diner where I would kill time before my apartment was ready, I’d stripped down to bare clothing essentials. I’d soon learn that modesty had no place in an Iowa heatwave.
The second thing I observed was a chalkboard on the diner wall listing the day’s flavors of pie-shakes. Turns out blending a piece of apple or blueberry or chocolate pie into a milkshake is a thing in Iowa. If you have questions, so did I. The only real way to answer them is to taste. Yum, yum, yum.
I could go on and on about Iowa City. The glad-you’re-here, let-us-know-if-you-need-anything-but-otherwise-we’ll-let-you-do-your-thing nature of the place. The casual but intentional symbiosis of the practical and artistic. Street sculptures and author plaques embedded in sidewalks and in public spaces.
Then came the real reason I was there. To honor my lifelong love of words, the novel I am working on, and the creative life I’ve built. To walk in the footsteps of literary giants and soak up their inspiration.
I was in good company. My classmates came from all over the country and world. They’d forgone professional opportunities to attend, shelved summer vacations, one person was getting married two days after the class ended. We all very much wanted to be there. With each other. Even though we’d just met.
We held space for the chapters of life that had brought us there, before quickly getting down to the actual chapters we’d brought with us. We read and listened and wrote—on repeat. Workshopping works-in-progress that ranged from the deeply personal to the profoundly absurd. The writing was wonderful. The process invigorating.
The author and mentor who’d chosen us to be the beneficiaries of her experience displayed generosity far beyond the words. Holding our writerly dreams up alongside hers.
One day flowed into the next with surprising ease. Pages got critiqued. Friendships were cemented. We even witnessed a Midwestern summer storm complete with tornado warnings.
Then, just as quickly, the experience was over. It was time to pack up my things, sip one last pie-shake and head home. To field the seemingly simple question, “How was Iowa?”
And to have no adequate response. Because some experiences change you at the molecular level. And the only way to honor the journey is one word, one page, one novel at a time.
