May 9, 2002

The Taos writer's workshop broke into groups of four students the first morning. We met four times a day to do 10-minute writing practices. If we chose, we read the work aloud. However, the other class members were not allowed to praise or criticize the assignment.

Meeting sites were at the group's choice. A small coffee house's patio was the most colorful place. Characters flavored by the street roamed among the wobbly tables, looking over the writers' shoulders, leading tan dogs and carrying canvas backpacks. One particularly vigorous chap carried on a monologue, originating somewhere in the spaces of his damaged brain. Well over six feet tall and right at 300 pounds in heft, he demanded a lot of attention bellowing disjointed sentences and breaking into remnants of operetta — a slight resemblance to the score, I must add.

On one writing excursion, a Greek girl from New York City wanted to use the restroom after an exercise. She made the turn to the door to find this monster (note: he becomes larger each telling) singing an aria of his choice and composition blocking the doorway. Seasoned by the violence of Manhattan and her home in Athens, she knew to retreat. She told the cashier (who was also the cook and waiter) that a huge man was holding a concert in the door to the ladies' restroom. The cashier nodded and returned to working a crossword puzzle. One of the customers handed her his dog's leash, drew his knife, and said, "I'll take care of him."

Before she can flee, the customer returns, leading the giant by one of his big mitts. (He gained a little more in size here.) The knife is sheathed. He assured her the restroom was now safe for occupancy. The cashier/cook continued working a crossword puzzle. The leash goes slack in the Greek girl's hand as the dog falls asleep under a stool. Her benefactor and the enormous beast of a man strolled out the front door as congenially as if they lived under the same bridge (which they may do), leaving the dog and the Greek girl to fend for themselves.

After hearing the story, I chose a much less hip coffeehouse over west of the square to write. The pastries came from an oven in the back; the chairs spread large enough to accommodate my bulk. I wandered down alone one afternoon. Just as I reached the parking lot in front, a gravel bounced onto the sidewalk. Moments later another skipped across the asphalt to do a bank shot against the parking lot curb. The assault traced to a girl in her twenties, sitting crosslegged on the far curb with her slouchy skirt "cupped," I suppose is the right word, to hold a gallon or so of rocks.

I backed from range. After awhile she ran out of ammunition, rose and brushed the dirt from her long skirt, and left down the alley. The traffic resumed dodging the larger rocks scattered across the pavement. I walked through the book shop portion of the coffeehouse, thinking the lady in charge might comment on the recent barrage going on in front of her place. She seemed as serene as if a rock fight was part of owning a private business in New Mexico. (Any Mertzon kid's first reflex to anger is to grab a rock. My son, the Austin trial lawyer, claims when he's mad he scans the courtroom floor for a rock.)

The workshop schedule kept us up on the hill at the Dodge house eight to 14 hours a day. One night a novelist from north of Taos, Summer Woods, reviewed her new book, Adobe. Miss Goldberg assigned the book to be read beforehand. Mrs. Woods spent an hour talking of the procedures and ideas she used to write her first novel. She was new enough to addressing the public to have a fresh approach, unlike some of the canned stuff older jaded writers hash out at conferences.

One thing that struck was that the way she raised the money to subsidize writing the novel was working as a carpenter. By then, I was discouraged by being around enthusiastic young writers, bubbling over in ambition and so smooth of cheek their faces gave sheen as soft as ostrich plumes. Not to mention how successful an image the author made in polished brown boots, a green Irish wool skirt set off by a pearl button silk blouse.

Miss Goldberg told us if we'd write 10 minutes a day for two years, we would be ready to do serious work. After hearing Summer Woods, I have been wondering whether, if I studied being a carpenter, say, an hour a day for two years, I might be better off. I wrote Mrs. Woods a postcard asking her advice. I haven't heard back yet. Could be she might change the whole course of my life…

May 9, 2002

---