Eli Cranor

I’m writing from the White County Creative Writers Conference.

The WCCW was founded in 1995. The first conference occurred on September 7, 1996, around the same time I was starting third grade.

There are people here who were in that original group. Fine folks who’ve put in thirty years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears. In other words, they’ve been writing nearly as long as I’ve been alive.

And yet, for some strange reason, they’ve asked me to come speak at their conference.

To say I feel woefully unqualified would be an understatement.

To make matters worse, I’m surrounded by some of my greatest literary heroes: Charles Portis, Donald Harington, Jack Butler, Greg Brownderville, Kevin Brockmeier, Helaine Williams (my very own editor!), and more. Their names have been emblazoned on an “Arkansas Writers Hall of Fame” plaque that is proudly displayed at the front of the room. Hall of Fame authors Linda Apple, Anthony Wood, Del Garrett, Dot Hatfield, and Clarissa Willis are in attendance today, too, along with fellow speaker and bestselling Arkansas author Maggie Wells.

But we’re not the only writers in attendance. Not by a long shot.

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The conference center is packed with wordsmiths. They come in all ages, all shapes and sizes, all bound by their love of putting the black on the white.

It’s a strange affliction. A compulsion. That’s what I call it, whatever it is that drags a person back to the desk, day in and day out, to play with imaginary friends.

Standing before the White County Creative Writers, I know not all my friends are imaginary. Even though I just met so many of these people, I feel an instant kinship thanks to our shared love of storytelling.

Writing is essentially solitary confinement. Loneliness is an occupational hazard. But on the rare occasion when we writers get together — Arkansas writers, especially — watch out!

I’m scheduled to give two talks, one about setting and another about craft. For the setting session, I plan to mention this column, which is essentially a weekly experiment in place and time.

But for the craft talk, I’m not sure what I’ll say. This isn’t due to a lack of preparation. It’s just the truth.

It’s always hard for me to explain how I do what I do. How does one sit down and create people, whole worlds, where there was nothing only moments before? How do you jam twenty-six small black squiggles into just the right order until the lines come alive?

I don’t know.

It’s like some strange kind of magic. The best kind of magic. But when it gets tough, when the spell wears off, and the real world settles in, it’s nice to know you’re not alone.

A good workshop, a core group of creative people who are willing to actively read and honestly respond to each other’s work, is worth its weight in gold. In fact, it’s groups like the WCCW that refill a writer’s magical tank and keep the words flowing.

Here’s to another thirty years!

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