We did very well without the priests of Apollo.
Two hundred years without anyone claiming an earthquake
was a sign. But there it is: men always want to take over.

Though I will say this, the Dionysians are good company.
They bring excellent wine, and they never poker up when
someone tells a bawdy joke. They can laugh at themselves.

I miss them in the winter. It gets cold here, and lonely.
In the old days people came to see us year round. Of course,
in the old days, we were still virgins. That's all changed.

Some things don't change, nor should they. Change is never good.
I've been Pythia for half my life, I know what I'm talking about.
No one truly wants change, not us, not the gods. Yet it happens.

Year after year the ritual is the same, as are the questions.
I've heard it all: spouses, lovers, merchants, kings, young, old,
all wanting reassurance, clarity, or a promise.

Tell me he loves me. Tell me my child thrives. Is war coming?
Can this illness be cured? Am I being cheated? Who is the father?
Could I have done something differently? Will I be found out?

The oracle speaks to everyone, great or insignificant. Some groan,
some cry, some are silenced by the answer, but it doesn't matter.
The oracle is sacred. Knowledge cannot be taken back.

Oh, some will ignore it, but that never ends happily. It's too bad
the gods don't interfere anymore. No one has been turned into a tree
or a nymph for years. We're given hints only, the rest is up to us.

So take my advice, Thekla. Spend your time wisely here at the temple.
The two years will go quickly, and when you go home do not forget
all anyone wants is for someone to take our desires seriously.

More work inspired by Elise's pendant "Nine Things About Oracles"

This journal is no longer public as of 2008. Thank you for visiting.

Here is the chief thing I came away with from Viable Paradise and the workshop experience: it's time to take my writing seriously. I don't know if I'll ever sell a word, but I mean to be the best writer of fantasy and science fiction that I can be.

Next weekend I'll sit down with all the notes people gave me and think about those comments as I reshape my plot. There will still be romance because I love the tension of unresolved attraction combined with witty Nick-and-Nora dialogue. But it's a time travel story with romance in it, not the other way around. I already knew that. Now I know what to do about it. Still, I need a break. I'm not even reading the good commentary until next weekend.

Today I have done nothing but walk my dog, try to catch up on LJ (Negability, I'm looking at you), take a three hour nap, and try to work up the energy to go grocery shopping. I have a short story to finish and a few hundred photos from Martha's Vineyard to transfer from my laptop to my desktop and then upload selections to Flickr.

It just might be time, she said looking at the little hand on the 4 and the big hand on the 37, to change out of my pajamas and go to the store. Well, all right then.

I'd try to name everyone, but there's no discernable order.*

Most of the attendees are partying like crazy down in Room 50. Turns out I am just too tired for that. I'm gently winding down by looking through the photos I took and thinking about how nice it would be to come back to Martha's Vineyard sometime a bit earlier in the fall before everything closes down.

*Okay, everyone's names are attached to the Flickr photo, but you'll have to click on the image to see who was who.

I'm ready to go home now. However, I still have half a day of workshop left. No more critiquing, no more writing assignments or note-taking, just an illuminating talk from an instructor and a free-form colloquium. I am hitting the wall in terms of talking about writing, to be honest. I need time to process the enormous amount of information I've received.

Christ, how do you Clarionites do it? I'd go mad if I had six weeks of this.

I have to say this has been a fun and optimal experience. The Viable Paradise routine is finely tuned; everything runs smoothly. There's been a good balance between group sessions, one-on-ones and breakout groups, with plenty of time to talk to fellow students in between. Admittedly, no one gets enough sleep, coffee consumption is up, and if you haven't hit imposter syndrome or gotten weepy by now you're extraordinarily well-adjusted. But that's part of the workshop experience, too.

I am fairly well adjusted, but I've felt pretty low once or twice. Yes, I've heard some wonderful things about my writing that I absolutely cherish. Yes, I'm convinced I've got what it takes to have a writing career. But I'm not at the stage of anyone asking me to submit my ms. to an editor or telling me to get an agent, as has happened to two of my friends. Luckily, my ego is highly resilient.

Mac Stone and I talked about making a time capsule in which I will predict the future of everyone here. In five years we'll open it and see if I correctly predicted who would be in rehab, who would have given up writing for good, and who was a working author. We've already laughed over how much fun it will be to blurb each other's books "if we have time."

We have all internalized the catchphrases "...modified!" "Don't overweird the pudding," and "Dinosaurs and sodomy." The instructors seem excessively fond of the phrase, "We're not unreasonable. We won't eat your eyeballs."

Last night was Beer with Billy, a fine VP tradition of beer, pizza and reading a Shakespeare play aloud. The instructors chose Hamlet which meant we had to cast it twice to give everyone a chance at a part. I achieved immortality by playing Rosencrantz as a stoner surfer dude. Dru Miller was bemused by Ophelia's songs in the second half, so Elise Matthesen, Nicole Leboeuf and I convinced him to do it as heavy metal, complete with devil horns hand signals. He was the hit of the play.

I think I have just enough room left in my brain for this afternoon's free-range discourse. Then it's group photo time, after which we start drinking. This last portion is formally identified as the Tearful Farewells portion of the workshop.

Tomorrow I go home deeply grateful I built in a day of rest between me and work. I want nothing more than to lie on my sofa, John at the other end, Keiko curled up in one arm, Natasha snuggled down by my legs, and Jasper lying on the floor next to me making woofling noises as he sleeps. It will be very peaceful and comforting.

Shortly thereafter I will start the revision process for my first novel, The Title Everyone Hates. For the first time in two years I look forward to that.

Had my first of two one-on-one sessions with an instructor. Here is a sample of our dialogue.

Him: Your story starts on page 38.

Me: Dang.

Him: Okay, you can keep three chapters out of ten.

Me: But what about...

Him: He's a philosopher! She's a chimp! Together, they fight crime!

Me: What if I...

Him: No.

Me: Can I still use Schubert?

Him: Certainly. Also Metternich. And maybe Martin Luther.

Me: Martin Luther didn't fight crime.

Him: Hey, we're just brainstorming here.

I think I understand what needs to happen to make this novel work. I think I'm up for it.

The fall color here is beautiful, a dozen shades of red among cheerful yellows and dark orange. At sunset tonight I walked down to the beach and marveled at the white sand awash in shells.

Then, of course, I stuck my hand in the Atlantic Ocean, as one does.

I had my critique today, first person at my first session, and it was great. I don't mean it was a love fest, although actually, it kind of was. What I liked was eight people read my novel's first 10,000 words and then talked to me about it. Eeeeeexcellent.

The critiques were useful, and I swear I got my money's worth from this workshop just from today alone. It's amazing how ready I was to hear all this.

My own critiquing skills suck, but I'm improving. We talk writing day and night, which is exciting and exhausting. I've chatted with about half the attendees, just to say howdy and find out where they're from. It's like all the good parts of summer camp, actually: big plenary sessions, little one-on-ones, walks by myself or with the group, sneaking out to smoke cigarettes and sitting around in the evenings working on stuff.

Tomorrow: more of the same. Can't wait.

Flight excellent, slept all the way. Bus arrived as promised, also ferry, also lackeys from Viable Paradise to transport self and one David Thompson to writers workshop. Said lackeys are actually instructors PNH and Steven Gould, ahem.

Happened upon Roommate #1 (Elise Matthesen) committing jewelry and yarn acquisition. Exchanged heartfelt greetings and agreed upon need to go grocery shopping. Ventured into town and bought breakfast ingredients consisting of french bread, mozzarella balls, sweet red peppers, calamata olives, chicken liver mousse, goat cheese, two kinds of apples, spinach-artichoke hummus, fig-orange marmalade, butter, milk and croissants.

Happened upon Roommate #2 (Cal Primer) who is a delightfully hearty sort given to long walks on the beach, contemplating the stars, and answering her pager since her company cannot live without her. Suspect she may begin leaving the pager in her room during the workshop.

Functioning on four hours of sleep, two cups of coffee and sheer giddiness. More later. I think I see flames. Presume this is from charcoal grills and not workshop attendees being sacrified to Baal. But not sure yet.