Little Shop of Writing

Abstract

Little Shop of Writing C. Williams (bio) A few years ago I had to find a place to write. I'm not the kind to sit at home in the quiet. It gives me what I call Monkey Mind. I am a social creature, raised in chaos and noise and visual distractions. I wanted a studio. A tiny one where I could have the option of quiet, but still watch the flow of humanity stroll by my window. Being someone who craves [End Page 114] contact with others, I had to pick a spot where I didn't feel isolated, but not be distracted by coffeeshop gossip and unhinged toddlers. I wanted to create my own silent movie. Make up stories about the people walking by. Play soundtracks. Come up with complex scenarios about the lives of complete strangers. I'm writing fiction, so this is what I love to do. For years, and another career, I struggled with the idea of writing. I did some all my life. Wrote a play in the third grade that was a mash-up of Robin Hood and Goldilocks. Bow and arrows, bears and a shotgun. It was a hit. Ran for a week during morning snack break. I knew I was going to be a writer. Then I hit a dry streak. I wrote intermittently in junior high study hall, high school pep rallies, on crowed beaches and cafes in college. I required people in a humming hive to dive into the place of myself to write. All the images I ever saw of writers were sitting in a dark attic office or walking alone by the ocean, wind in their hair. Thinking. Alone. No one else seemed to dream of an author photo taken on the streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras. I was screwed. Then in 2009, I was lucky enough to be included in my first week long writing event in the haven of the Appalachian Writers' Workshop at the Hindman Settlement School. The experience spoiled me with the kind inclusion and generosity the writers there extended to the odd new girl among them. Beginners and bestselling authors worked shoulder to shoulder, intent with serious craft offerings and lots of love. It was perfect. It was five days of a communal kindness and inspiration that one could use a dose of every day, especially the hard ones. I wanted to come back home and try to share a taste of this feeling. [End Page 115] In December 2012, I moved into a writing space that's in an enclave of stores in East Nashville called the Shoppes on Fatherland. It's a popular area; lots of foot traffic. I wanted my studio to be a kind of humane trap for other lone writers wondering the streets of Nashville, looking for shelter. Then I did something un-writerly. I worked with the door open. Literally. A shop-front window space allowed for public display of my wild, awkward leap from visual design to writer. Who knew how it should work, certainly not me. But it seemed important to expose myself to the many questions people have about what the place is about when they stumble across my studio. It helps me clarify what I mean to do. I had to really consider the why and how of dedicating this sort of time and money just to sit and make stuff up. The only answer I know is that this special little hut keeps a place for me, and I keep coming back to write. It has a spirit, a soul, so it keeps me accountable. Especially when I want to give up. To be straight about it, this place is a kind of bait. It was in hope of finding a way to connect with as many people as possible over the solitary journey of writing. Some days there's a steady stream of friends and strangers who walk in the door trying to figure out what the heck I'm doing writing in a what looks like a store. Most like the space and many feel like there is something here they need and want. The ones who...