You know that thing where writers are in sync? Where women are in sync- and I am not talking about “that time of the month”, kind of syncing- just the place where you can find a common pace and go with it- no judgments, no qualifiers, no pretensions.

I love that.

A friend asked me a few weeks back if I had found my “tribe.” I knew exactly what she meant, and I answered honestly. Nope.

When I’m alone, writing, and losing myself in those head movies that run forward and backward and sometimes sideways. I have my tribe. My characters understand me – or better yet, I understand them. Sure, I create them, and sure, they are compilations of real life people- but they are the best and worst parts of people- the imagined bits of a person I either want to drink shots of tequila with in hot places, or strangle and leave for dead in dank, dark alleyways. I might be kidding about one of those. And yeah, I can’t call on a character to pick me up when my car breaks down or bail me out of jail or help me choose the perfect area rug for a winter cabin. That shit you save for your earthly tribe.

Yesterday, on Day 2 of the retreat, when Annette read an essay that made me cry, when Donia read an amazing, vivid, visceral story that touched me to the core, when we spent time with a professor pal whose poetry makes me swoon, a little squiggle of hope emerged in me. Tribe, it whispered.

A place to write about the blues.

seeing things sideways- not always a bad thing

At the end of the night…