​It was a perfect spring day, and I’d just finished a short hike in a perfect spot with my perfect (well, almost perfect) dog. The perfect dog and I hopped in the car, and I searched my playlist for the perfect song to fit the mood. Although our country’s still in crisis on so many levels, I was feeling more hope than I’ve felt in, well, more than a year. The song needed to be right. And because the past hour had been perfect, the first song that popped up was perfect too: Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” 
 
I pushed play, and a Motown-infused orchestral arrangement streamed out through the open windows. Cooke’s sweet voice, touched with gravel, was the perfect match for his lyrics, a reminder that despite so much unrelenting sorrow, somehow, hope remains. As his mellifluous tenor soared to the high notes where he acknowledges life’s been too hard, hope washed over me. 
 
But the long absence of any sort of hope made its sudden return jarring, jolting me from the fleeting reverie. Instead, I thought, we’re fighting the same battles we’ve been fighting for millennia—will they ever, really, end? And if we can’t win the big battles, what’s the point of fighting the small ones? 
 
My subconscious nudged me, perhaps wanting to restore the all-too-brief sensation of blissful hope or maybe just wanting to lighten the mood: Have you forgotten that only a few hours earlier, you conquered something that’s frightened you since you were a child? Hmm, funny, I had indeed forgotten it already, even though it was momentous. Now you might be thinking I was afraid of “normal” things like spiders, snakes, bugs, etc., which are all good guesses. However, you’d be incorrect. I was afraid of…
 
Jump-starting a dead battery. 
 
If you’re asking why, and you probably are, I don’t know why, exactly. I suspect my father or grandfather was leaning over a car or truck or tractor engine, with another vehicle pulled alongside, and a very young me ambled up to inquire what they were up to. Most likely they looked down, gave a brief lesson about dead batteries, and warned me to keep away in case the battery exploded. Being a rule-follower, the warning stuck—although more than a bit too tightly. 
 
The good news is that once I was old enough to drive, there was almost always someone around who would take care of jumping the occasional dead battery––and enabling my fear. At some point in my relationship with my now-husband, he gave me a AAA membership, which he’s renewed every year since. Of course, these days, most cars and batteries are quite reliable, so between their reliability and trusty AAA, my battery-jumping fears were kept to a minimum. 
 
That reprieve ended in 2018 when I purchased my beloved late grandpa’s vintage truck, with all its vintage parts, and the old fear became an almost-every-week occurrence. But once again, someone else stepped in to take care of the problem—my teenage son, who loves the old truck almost as much as I loved my grandpa. My husband taught our son how to safely jump-start the battery, which I observed from a safe distance. Indoors. And despite the fact I’ve replaced that truck battery five times in fewer than three years, and my mechanic swears there’s nothing draining it, the battery works only when it feels like it. Which isn’t often. My son went off to college last fall, so I again relied on AAA or enlisted my husband to manage the jump-starting process. I’m married to someone who can jump a car battery and can fix just about anything, which is both useful and annoying. 
 
So on this perfect spring day, before I’d set off on my perfect hike, I thought I’d take the truck out for a Sunday drive. Of course, the battery was dead. My husband declined my request to “help” me jump the battery, directing me instead to Google, saying, “Isn’t it about time you learned how to do this yourself?” 
 
Peeved, I took my laptop outside and glared at the battery lurking under the raised hood. With an exasperated sigh, inaudible to the spouse hiding indoors, I plopped down on a bench to watch videos and read how-to guides. They all gave conflicting advice. As I felt my blood pressure reach new heights, I picked one guide that seemed authoritative, took a deep breath, and began following the steps. 
 
At a critical point, which means I was holding my laptop with one hand and attaching unwieldy battery cables to the terminals with my other hand, the spouse emerged, now eager to assist. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he inquired. I suggested he return to his comfortable indoor lair. He declined and instead stayed for the show, offering commentary that I ignored. 
 
A few minutes later, all the cables and connections were as the guide outlined. I cranked up my everyday car, let it run for the time specified, then cranked the truck. The old engine sputtered twice, then died. I tried again. The engine gave a single weak sputter, then died. On my final try, the engine was silent. Nothing happened.
 
Nothing happened. 
 
Nothing happened!
 
Nothing happened?
 
Why was I so happy? Because the engine and battery from either vehicle didn’t explode. There were no frightening noises, I was still in one piece, and even though the battery was still dead, I was very much alive. And if you have an irrational fear that you’re wrestling, that part about still being alive after conquering your irrational fear is really the most important part.
​

A writer friend vented to me one day, frustrated that the characters in her work-in-progress were rebelling, not following the narrative and character arcs she’d outlined for them. Joking, my friend vowed to bend the characters to her will, eventually. She didn’t want any advice, just to blow off some steam. Besides, we’d already had a conversation in the past about letting the characters develop in their own way, the “let them come to you” writing truism. 
 
But the more I thought about it, the more it confirmed my belief that writing guidance, even if it’s solid, isn’t always understood. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, guidance is best offered as a parable, a story that might connect and inform at a deeper level. Since then, I’ve recalled a true story that I didn’t want to write just now, but like my friend’s characters, it insists on being heard. 
 
Decades ago, when my grandfather, a farmer and county lineman, was still living, a series of dogs walked alongside him. First were the hunting dogs he’d bought, including Jimbo, a big yellow Lab who was my “horse” when I was little. Over the years, hunting dogs gave way to runaways from other less-hospitable homes. These dogs, usually pit bulls, wandered through the pine forests that circled my grandparents’ small farm, and sometimes the dogs even trotted down the dirt road, their paws kicking up sparkly puffs of mica-laden dust, until they reached my grandparents’ home at its end. 
 
Grandpa’s last dog, who’d come to him the wandering way, was a black and white pit bull mix. Now no matter how they arrived, purchased or unexpected, Grandpa always gave his dogs unusual names, and this one was no exception. Grandpa named him Reagan. Of all the dogs that had loved my grandfather, Reagan was the only one that was afraid of everything. He’d shy away, never aggressive, but fearful of being close enough to be touched by anyone other than my grandfather. Even then, he’d tremble, which told me all I needed to know about his former owner. 
 
In those days, I was in college and working part-time at a veterinary hospital. I’d make the forty-five-minute trip to visit Grandma and Grandpa about once a month, and each time I’d try a new tactic I’d learned at work to assure Reagan that I wouldn’t hurt him. I’d sit and call to him, try to walk alongside him at a distance, offer a treat, but nothing worked. If I came within twenty feet, he’d give me a sad side-eye, then lope away. At dusk, Grandpa and I would feed the catfish in his pond, tossing corn pellets from an old Folgers coffee can and watching the catfish, bottom feeders, churn toward the surface, their sleek gray bodies roiling in the feeding frenzy they expected every evening, like clockwork.
 
One spring evening after we’d fed the fish, Grandpa eased himself onto the ground, and I plopped down next to him. We watched the fish enjoy their supper as Reagan eyed us from afar. Every so often, Reagan would take a step or two toward me, and I’d turn my head just a bit toward him, offering an encouraging smile. Reagan gave me the same sad side-eye, hung his head, and walked off. 
 
“Grandpa, what’s wrong with Reagan?” I asked. “He seems to like me, but he won’t come near me. What am I doing wrong?” 
 
“Coot*, you’re not doing anything wrong,” Grandpa said. “I heard tell his owner beat him, and now he’s just afraid of everybody and everything. Give him time, let him come to you.” 
 
For once, I listened. I sat there, watching the catfish slow their feeding gymnastics as their hunger became sated. I sensed Reagan’s presence, but I resisted the urge to turn my head, or move at all. Motionless, Grandpa and I continued to sit on the warm, damp soil as the sun slipped behind the pine boughs. As the rays faded into the earth, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I didn’t turn, I didn’t look, I didn’t move. I didn’t have to. I knew what it was. Reagan’s head rested on my shoulder, his breath warming my cheek. 
 
“I told you, Coot,” Grandpa said, still looking straight ahead at the fish. “All you had to do was sit still and let him come to you.” 
 

 
Another writing, and life, truism is that it’s ever-so-easy to give advice and oh-so-hard to follow it yourself. For a few weeks now I’ve been working on a New Year’s blog post that I thought would wrap up everything I wanted to say about 2020 and everything I’m looking forward to in 2021. It was crap. Yet I’d put off writing this blog post about characters and my grandpa’s dog because it didn’t fit with my New Year’s theme—even though I’d written the entire piece in my mind, over and over––I continued toiling on the post I thought would work. 
 
See what I did there?
 
Here I am, thinking about the good advice I’d give someone else, yet I couldn’t see how it applied to my own work. Sure, I wasn’t developing characters just then, but I was developing a narrative. And when the narrative I’d planned didn’t work, I ignored the one that kept resting its head on my shoulder, a gentle, comforting presence that had come to me unbidden. 
 
In this new year, no matter how many crises you’ve endured or how long you’ve waited to fulfill a desire, I hope you’ll take a few minutes to sit a spell. Although the day-to-day world may roil in front of you, give yourself some time to focus on the future. And when you least expect it, I hope you’ll feel the gentle presence of your characters, your words, your whatever-it-is that you’ve been needing for so long now. 
 
Wishing you peace, health, and happiness in 2021.
 
 
 
The plagues of 2020 and my doctor’s advice that I stay safely at home are making me think back to much happier years. In the ironic path that life constructs, I’m finding those happy memories are helpful and relevant to the writing and editing issues that my clients—and I—are dealing with every day. If you’d like to read more posts like this, sign up for my newsletter. I promise I won’t spam or overwhelm you—I don’t like it when people do that to me, so I won’t do that to you!
 
*The term “coot” refers to an eccentric, or grumpy, old man. I don’t recall ever asking my grandpa why he nicknamed me this, but I wish I had. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A few weeks ago, I took a walk through the abandoned playing fields of the high school near my home. Tender green leaves, gentle sunshine, and caressing breezes blurred and swept away thoughts of the invisible virus that seemed to lay in wait. The advent of spring and lack of maintenance had unleashed growth I didn’t believe possible on this once-manicured surface. Now, tiny three-petaled lavender flowers, golden dandelions, red and white clover, and leafy stalks obscured my running shoes. I recalled my grandma’s long-ago admonition to “mind where you put your feet––there’s snakes out there” as I ventured out to explore the forty acres of pasture and pines that encircled their small farm. 

Ever the rule-follower, even now I watched where I put my feet, stepping lightly so as not to crush the novel, verdant carpet, and was gratified to see the tiny blossoms spring upright behind me. Looking down, all was kelly green and lovely and blooming. Then I looked up. 
 
Ahead was a dilapidated storage shed flanked with broken boards, overturned buckets, and coiled netting caked with lichen. For writers, it’s where the main character would have found the body. I looked down at the field, then up at the shed, as if I were observing a vertical tennis match, then glanced around to see if anyone else was there and might be concerned about my mental health. 

But no, I was still alone. I pulled out my phone and took a few pics of the disparate scenes, thinking of one of my clients, a gifted author who writes mysteries, and wondered how she’d describe this setting. Would her character look across the field, missing or ignoring the hundreds of tiny flowers, and run to the tatty shed that concealed the victim? Or would the author draw out the scene, distracting the reader with fragrant blossoms until the character caught the unmistakable scent of decomposition? 

Of course, it depends on the author’s desires, the character’s arc, and multiple other factors. But I still wondered if the author would want her character to look down, or look up. As I pondered, I thought about perspective, such a useful word and concept, relating equally well to pandemics, life, and art. Here I am, out for a walk to escape the scourge, recalling happier times in my youth, and thinking about the craft of writing. Walking is a simple act that’s maintaining my perspective during a surreal time. 

It occurs to me a blog post about perspective might be helpful to other writers. And I cringe. Throughout my career, whether public relations or editing, I’ve been behind the scenes, hidden, the ballast the public doesn’t see, making my clients look great—and I embrace that role. As an editor, I help other writers craft their best possible work, from resolving daunting developmental issues to correcting misspelled words. I love my work, past and present, more than I could have imagined. 

What I didn’t imagine was that becoming an editor would shut down most of my own writing. At first, I thought it was the workload—after all, my priority is focusing on my clients and their writing. But after a few years passed and I still wasn’t writing, I had to admit it’s because I was afraid of not being “perfect.” After all, I’m an editor, dedicated to polishing and perfecting narrative until it shines. A few years ago, I came across an article where another editor had written about the importance of catching errors in blog posts, etc. There was an error in the first paragraph. I thought it was deliberate, but it wasn’t. There were a few more errors throughout. It happens, and it was another reminder that I didn’t want the public to catch my mistakes. 

Sharing work is an invitation for metaphorical snakes in the grass to judge, criticize, and shame—all those fears that keep writers from enjoying the writing process, submitting their work, and discussing it with editors. This is why my entire business is founded on supportive, uplifting, honesty-with-kindness editorial guidance. I would never subject a writer to any comment or action that made them feel “less than.” I’ve experienced that horror myself, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

Despite my fears, my first love was, and is, writing, and my muse is steadfast. Though I’m not writing on a keyboard or paper, I write in my mind and take notes. Still, I miss writing. I miss the bliss of my own writer’s high when the words whisper and flow as my fingers and heart race to capture their elusive beauty. I’m struggling to overcome the fear of sharing my writing, worrying it’s not my best work or it contains mistakes. The fact is, sometimes it won’t be my best work and sometimes it will contain mistakes. That’s writing, and I know that. I’ve coached many other writers through this very issue, so why can’t I do it for myself?

I looked at the images of the field and shed on my phone and typed in a note: Perspective. I put my phone in my pocket, then looked up. To the right of the ramshackle shed, I noticed a slim, steep, path. Shaded beneath pine boughs, it disappeared into the woods. Intrigued, I took a few steps for a closer look. For a moment, the past beckoned; once again, I heard my grandma’s loving warning. I hesitated, examining the path. It was blanketed with fragrant needles and dotted with small rocks. It would be a challenging climb, but it wasn’t frightening. Plus, there wasn’t a snake in sight. 

It’s all about perspective. And mine, at last, had changed. Tentative, but resolved, I ventured forth to explore. 

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​Fascinating writers with intriguing life stories--they're the heart and soul of The Writer's High Retreat family. Join us and experience the writer's high®  for yourself. Here's Jeff Shaw to share his story:



​I'm Jeff Shaw. I had a great career in law enforcement, one that somehow gave me an interest in creative writing. I love reading and writing in many different genres. I’m a hobbyist first, but like many people, I write wanting my work to be read and for people to enjoy what I write or to get something from it. 

My first attempt at a sci-fi novel ended in disaster, and I put it away for a year until a friend recommended I spend a weekend at the Writer’s High Retreat. That experience, and the encouragement I got from Mari Ann and all those that attended, was exactly what I needed to dust off my manuscript and make those hard changes it needed. 

I’m retired now, but I feel I’m busier than ever: reading, writing, and living.

See you there!

​Fascinating writers with intriguing life stories--they're the heart and soul of The Writer's High Retreat family. Join us and experience the writer's high®  for yourself. Here's Kyle Ann to share her story:

Hi, I’m Kyle Ann, a retired physical therapist assistant with most of my education coming from raising four kids. My largest accomplishment to date: all four kids are out of college, happy in their own spaces, and paying their own bills!

Once I became an “empty nester” I wanted to do something for myself. I found my old writings (some published, some not) from high school and college and decided to take some creative writing classes to get my brain in gear to make my life-long dream of becoming an author come true. I joined a local writer’s group and at my very first meeting Mari Ann Stefanelli was the guest speaker. Can you say fate?

I went to my first Writer’s High retreat two months later. It was the first retreat, of any kind, I’d ever been to, a gift for myself. This newbie just jumped right in and was met with welcoming arms. Now preparing for my third year in a row to attend, I’m looking forward, once again, to catching up with all my Writer’s High family and feeding my brain with information about the craft and business of writing.

Since that first retreat and with the network of education and encouragement I received from my Writer’s High family, not only during the retreat but throughout the year, I’ve begun a fun blog called “If Corks Could Talk,” I’ve written a collection of children’s books that are now in the hands of an illustrator, I’ve gathered old and new poetry to co-author a book with photos taken by one of my daughters (a professional photographer), and I’ve written a full length women’s fiction novel, which is nearing publication.

You, too, will find a “home” at the Writer’s High Retreat!

 
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE DECEMBER 18, 2017
 
Contact:          Mari Ann Stefanelli, The Writer’s High Retreat® Founder & Executive Director
Email:              mariann.stefanelli@gmail.com
 
New York Times Best-Selling Author Patti Callahan Henry Is Keynote Speaker for
The Writer’s High Retreat® 2018
 
Patti Callahan Henry, the New York Times best-selling author of 12 novels, is the keynote speaker for the fourth annual Writer’s High Retreat® March 9–11 at Amicalola Falls Lodge in Dawsonville, Georgia. Ms. Henry’s latest book is The Bookshop at Water’s End, which was released in July. Her work has received numerous awards, including a Townsend Prize for Fiction finalist, an Indie Next Pick, an OKRA pick, and a multiple nominee for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) Novel of the Year.
 
Joining Ms. Henry is Nick Chiles, a literary agent, bestselling author, and a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. Mr. Chiles’ extensive body of work includes the New York Times bestselling memoir Every Little Step: My Story, which he co-authored with Bobby Brown in 2016, and Justice While Black: Helping African-American Families Navigate and Survive the Criminal Justice System, which he co-authored with attorney Robbin Shipp in 2014. The book was an NAACP Image Awards finalist in 2015. Mr. Chiles is also a literary agent with Aevitas Creative Management.
 
The featured speakers are accomplished authors, well versed in fiction, narrative nonfiction, and memoir––and recognized for their warm, engaging personalities and willingness to share their wisdom with others.
 
The Writer’s High Retreat® at Amicalola Falls Lodge package includes two nights’ accommodations, all retreat presentations, workshops, and events; meals included are Friday and Saturday dinner buffet, lunch buffet Saturday, and breakfast buffet Saturday and Sunday (cost includes coffee, tea, and iced tea). Rates are $733/single and $579/double (per person). Prices include all tips, taxes, and gratuities. This is a small, intimate retreat, and space is very limited. To register or for more information, visit the retreat website at www.thewritershighretreat.com.
 
There’s a powerful alchemy that occurs when writers come together in a gorgeous, peaceful setting and are given the time, inspiration, and support they need to breathe life into their writing––it’s called the writer’s high®. The Writer’s High Retreat is designed to develop and rejuvenate writers at all stages in their journey, and retreat guests rave about their experiences. “Like the standing ovation showed… people who articulated something important that not all writers’ groups, conferences, and retreats convey––that no matter where you are on your writer's journey, your writing does matter, it deserves love and support, and it warrants hard work, positive but firm critiques, and a roadmap to publishing,” was how one retreat guest described his experience.
 
Patti Callahan Henry is the New York Times bestselling author of Between the Tides; Where the River Runs; When Light Breaks; The Art of Keeping Secrets; Driftwood Summer; The Perfect Love Song: A Holiday Story; Coming up for Air; And Then I Found You; The Stories We Tell; The Idea of Love, The Bookshop at Water’s End, and the upcoming historical fiction BECOMING MRS. LEWIS, the improbable love story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. A finalist in the Townsend Prize for Fiction, an Indie Next Pick, an OKRA pick, and a multiple nominee for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) Novel of the Year, Patti’s work is published in nine languages. Her articles and essays have appeared in Southern Living, SKIRT, Writer’s Digest, Birmingham Magazine, Portico, numerous anthologies, and more. Patti is a frequent speaker at conferences, luncheons, book clubs, and women’s groups.
 
Nick Chiles has three decades of experience in publishing and journalism. He’s shepherded many bestselling books from conception to publication as a celebrity co-author, writing New York Times bestsellers with R&B icon Bobby Brown, civil rights leader Rev. Al Sharpton, and gospel legend Kirk Franklin, among others. He’s authored or co-authored 14 books, including five novels. Chiles served as a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and magazine and website editor-in-chief during his years in journalism, winning nearly 20 major awards—including a 1992 Pulitzer Prize as part of a New York Newsday team. As an agent, Chiles is deeply interested in nonfiction and fiction stories of individuals taking on entrenched institutions and original takes on American heroes—or crowning new ones—in areas like sports, music and the arts.
 
The Writer’s High Retreat is presented by The Writer's High®, LLC, which provides professional writing and editing services for authors and corporate clients. The retreat is sponsored by the Atlanta Writers Club and Broadleaf Writers Association.

​Author and Pulitzer Prize-Nominated Former Journalist Jedwin Smith Featured at The Writer’s High Retreat® 2017
The “Perfect Weekend Writing Retreat” Now in Its Third Year

Author, speaker, writing coach, and former journalist twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize Jedwin Smith headlines The Writer’s High Retreat® 2017. The weekend writing retreat, now in its third year, takes place March 17–19 at Amicalola Falls Lodge in Dawsonville, Georgia. 

Smith is joined by Megan Sexton, award-winning poet and co-editor of Five Points, one of the top literary journals in the country; HarperCollins novelist Susan Crawford, author of the thrillers The Pocket Wife and The Other Widow; multi-genre author George Weinstein, who has published five novels, including the contemporary mystery Aftermath and the Southern historical novel Hardscrabble Road and is also the founder of the Atlanta Writers Conference; and professional speaker, storyteller, and instructor Jeanne Hewell-Chambers, who is the founder of the 70,273 Project, which commemorates each of the disabled people murdered by Nazis between January 1940 and August 1941. 

The Writer’s High Retreat® at Amicalola Falls Lodge package includes two nights’ accommodations, all retreat presentations, workshops, and events; meals included are Friday and Saturday dinner buffet, lunch buffet Saturday, and breakfast buffet Saturday and Sunday (beverages included for all meals are coffee, tea, and iced tea). Rates are $733/single and $579/double (per person). Prices include all tips, taxes, and gratuities. Space is very limited. To register or for more information, visit the website at www.thewritershighretreat.com. 

The Writer’s High Retreat is designed to develop and rejuvenate writers at all stages in their journey, and retreat guests are raving about their experience. “Like the standing ovation showed… people who articulated something important that not all writers’ groups, conferences, and retreats convey––that no matter where you are on your writer's journey, your writing DOES matter, it deserves love and support, and it warrants hard work, positive but firm critiques, and a roadmap to publishing,” was how one retreat guest described his experience. In fact, more than half the 2016 retreat guests are returning. 

One reason for the retreat’s success is the featured speakers are not only accomplished authors, well-versed in memoir, fiction, nonfiction/memoir, poetry, and platform building, but also renown for their warm, engaging, and ground-breaking presentations––and their willingness to share their wisdom with others. 

For full speaker bios, please click here: Speakers

The Writer’s High Retreat® is presented by The Writer's High®, LLC, a professional writing and editing service for authors, businesses, and individuals. It’s endorsed and sponsored by the Atlanta Writers Club and Broadleaf Writers Association. 

Many thanks to author Rona Simmons for featuring me on her Women and Word blog! Read the full post––and learn about Rona––by clicking on the link below. 

I chose a seat beside the window overlooking the parking lot outside Mittie’s Cafe & Tea Room. From my vantage point I hoped to spot Mari Ann Stefanelli as she arrived. We’d met a couple of weeks earlier, briefly and in low light at a local book event. She had been surrounded by friends—some old, some new—and was all eyes and smiles as she drifted toward me and then effortlessly away through the crowd.

I wondered whether I’d recognize her in broad daylight. Distracted for a moment by the waitress, I turned back to the window in time to see a woman approach but too late to glimpse her face.  Head down, the woman hurried up the steps and through the door, hurrying because she was late, or because she was anxious, or because as I soon learned Mari Ann is always in a hurry. She extends her arm and offers a warm hug, and her auburn locks flow behind her head and around her face as if she she’d come from sitting for Botticelli. 

It was Mari Ann. Definitely Mari Ann. I could not have mistaken her.

Mari Ann takes her seat and offers an instant apology for keeping me waiting, though I’d only just arrived, a genuine thanks for agreeing to meet on short notice, and a warning that she might have to take a call, and gosh it’s so nice to get to know each other, and…

In minutes, it is as if I’ve known Mari Ann all my life.​ 

Read more at womenatword.wordpress.com