Four years ago I walked into studio 212 in Silver Street Studios for the first time. Writespace had only been open for a few months, and I was there to interview for a faculty position. I did land that position--my inaugural class was actually on tension, an emotion that fortunately has not plagued my time with Writespace. A few months after my first workshop, I also became a volunteer and then, in May of 2017, Writespace's first hired staff member.

I had no idea what to expect when I walked into that quiet, minimalist room back in 2014, and I also had no idea that room would become a huge part of my life, a (if you’ll excuse the use of cliche) home away from home. In that space, I taught workshops, learned from other writers, and laughed with my fellow volunteers.  I made friends and critique partners. I celebrated the release of my novel Our Lady of the Ice. I fell in love with poetry again. I tore through word counts at our Saturday 600s, read American Horror Story fanfiction at our Frightspace Open Mic, and undertook one of the biggest projects of my professional life: co-organizing Writefest 18. 

It’s pretty safe to say that Silver Street Studios #212 has shaped me over the last four years.

Still, it was a tremendous honor to help organize the move from studio 212 to studio 208, just around the corner. Our new space has more square footage, glass doors that open out onto the deck, and a rather poetic view of the train tracks and jasmine-covered fence behind Sawyer Yards. It’s the perfect place for a writer, and I know it will shape all of us.

Writespace takes a vacation in July, and so do I. This year, instead of leaving town, my husband and I decided to spend our vacation catching up on projects related to our relocation due to Hurricane Harvey. During our “staycation,” I’ve also been writing about Harvey. As much as I’d like to report that the writing is going along swimmingly, I’ve found it hard to write about the hurricane. It hurts so much to step once again into the brown floodwaters and into the canoe that took us from our home, but I feel I must to rescue myself in a larger way one year later.

​Until Wednesday, August 30, 2017, the day we were evacuated, my husband and I lived on the third floor of Lakeside Place Apartments in west Houston. Though we were forced to move when the apartments below us flooded, we didn’t lose all our possessions, as did most Houstonians affected by Harvey. Still, I’ve never lost as much in one week. The things I lost in Harvey were intangible, such as my sense of safety. My pride. My belief that I am in control of my life.

Certainly some of the things I lost--like my pride--were things I needed to lose. Still, Harvey damaged me, and I definitely haven’t healed all the way. It was all so unfair, at the root of everything. Up until Harvey,I operated under the naive assumption that life could be a little unfair sometimes, but that it wouldn’t ever be hugely unfair. I do now feel greater compassion for those who suffer injustice, and I’m grateful for this. Still, there are aspects of my experience that just don’t make sense, and they may never make sense until the day I die. But I am a writer: My job is to try to make sense of life. 

​To heal, I have to step back into the terror of Harvey with words and just keep wading forward without drowning. Along with the pain of remembering, though, nasty voices park illegally in my head and try to keep me from my work. They growl, 

• “You didn’t lose everything the way other Houstonians did, so you have no right to write about Harvey.”
• “You’re supposed to be the director of a writing center, but your writing is so boring, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
• “You know that no one will ever read this, right?” 

I’m sure that some of you are quite familiar with these evil voices that try to keep us from writing. The only thing to do is let them keep yacking and write anyway, so this is what I do. I counter these voices with my good reasons to keep writing: 
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• I love to write. I love how strong and free I feel after I write.
• Through my writing, I might help a reader who’s suffered similarly traumatic experiences feel less alone--and, thus, stronger, too. Or, I could even come to understand something new through writing about Harvey, and that insight might help someone.
• If I and other Houstonians refuse to forget what happened, maybe policymakers will step up and make changes to curb development and increase the conservation of natural flood retention zones, to prevent the effects of another bad hurricane from becoming even worse.
• I’m leading Writespace’s “Processing Harvey through Writing” workshop on August 25, and I need to have the courage to write about Harvey before I ask others to have the courage to write about Harvey.

If you lived in Texas one year ago and either were affected by Harvey or know someone who was, please come to my workshop on August 25 or to Leslie Contreras Schwartz’s workshop on September 8 (psst, it’s only $5, or you can come for free). I know it’s not easy to write about Harvey, but, together, we can do it. We will be better through doing so, and we’ll be helping our city move forward. Even if you can’t attend a Processing Harvey workshop, I’d love to hear your Harvey story: please let us know if you were affected or if you helped someone who was. Workshop participants will be invited to submit their writings to the Houston Flood Museum, a project devoted to gathering stories and media about Harvey in order to help Houston remember and to inspire city leaders to do everything possible to keep an event like Harvey from happening again.

I never like to say, “I am speechless.” As a writer, I believe it’s my job to always have words at hand. But today I must say that Writefest has left me speechless. I don’t know how to describe Writefest, other than to say that on May 4th and 5th, it was as if a maelstrom of literary ecstasy dropped down to twirl and dance and spin around the corridors and art spaces of Winter Street Studios, awakening hearts and minds and pens in its wake. For someone working behind the scenes, who knows intimately just how delicious it all was, as well as how difficult—how many things could have gone wrong, but didn’t, (or did, but who cares since no one knew)—for someone who knows how amazing it felt to devote nine months to planning and then watch the magic unfold in even better ways than we imagined, with writers meeting and sharing and forming potentially lifelong bonds right before our eyes—I find it hard to “sum up” the experience.

Luckily, I don’t have to. As is always the case with Writespace, others have come to the rescue. So for this column, I will let those who came to Writefest speak.

In the words of Writefest attendees:

• "I loved the feeling of community and being part of a shared experience with so many other people who understand the struggles and triumphs of writing and publishing. The panelists were fantastic, especially the authors and moderator in the "Gardener vs. Architect" discussion. The workshops and classes were incredibly informative, entertaining, and interactive. Each of the speakers were passionate about their work and impact, which definitely made me feel more invested, too. The volunteers and Writespace staff were phenomenal. I was so impressed with the conference material, scheduling, and constant flow of helpful people never too busy to point us in the right direction or answer questions. It takes an army, and Writespace made it feel flawless. Also, Justin Cronin was fantastic!"
• "You guys are awesome. I'm inspired to get it done, and I can't wait to pitch my work next year."
• "This was my first time to attend Writefest and I really enjoyed it. I came away with much more information and motivation to write than I expected."
• "Everyone was so professional and kind. It is hard for me to point to an event where I felt so sincerely included and valued as an attendee."

In the words of Writefest presenters:
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• "I just can't tell you what a joy and a treat it was to get to present at Writefest. At the risk of outing myself as a hopeless amateur, getting to have my very own fancy hotel room was a HUGE thrill, and *everyone* I interacted with looked like they were having the time of their lives. You all have created such an exceptional culture of community and camaraderie, and it only gets more impressive the more I think about it in hindsight. (But just so you know, I will happily share a room next time if that helps to cut down on your total operating expenses. EVERY writer within 200 miles needs to be at Writefest 2019, and I would love to help make that possible!)"
• "Thank you and your crew for an absolutely phenomenal experience at Writefest! An event like that doesn't happen without a huge amount of planning and hard work, and a first-year partnership makes it even more of a challenge - but I am so endlessly amazed and grateful to have been part of such a smashing success. EVERYONE I saw this weekend looked like they were having the time of their lives, and the culture of community and camaraderie you've built up is a wonder to behold. Needless to say, please color me a Writefest fan for life!"
• "Keep doing what you’re doing. This year was better than last year (and last year was darn good). PS The volunteers were helpful and friendly. I hope they get a celebration party."

Writespace volunteers will get a celebration party, because without them, Writefest and Writespace would not exist.

Thank you to every writer who shared their time and mind and heart with us at Writefest this year. If you didn’t get to come, don’t worry. Yes, it was a blast, and we hope to see you at any number of equally awesome free and ticketed events that happen every week at Writespace.

The other day at Writespace I apologized to a writer about my delay in responding to an email. “Sorry, it’s been crazy with Writefest,” I said.

“Oh, is there a lot involved?”

Mouth open, I had no idea where to begin.  “Yes, there is a lot involved,” I said, but “Yes” felt like a blow-up swimming pool compared to the ocean of work involved with planning and hosting Writefest.

I’m taking a break from the swim, mid-ocean, to share aspects of the journey that have brought me great joy:
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• Wordpress.com contacting us to ask to be Tier One sponsors. Woo-hoo!
• Strong ticket sales and the likelihood that we will break even this year.
• Writespace’s Associate Director, Cassandra Clarke, aka “Wonder Woman,” always somehow managing to be one step ahead of everyone else, including me.
• Writespace’s Facebook and Twitter teams rocking it out with interviews of attending agents and writers, and our Instagram team blowing everyone away with gorgeous, emotive images (Thank you, Sophie Bonifaz, Quentin Key-Telo, Kristine Brown, Amna Ahmad, Kat Diaz, and Carmen Stewart!).
• Our Writefest AV Coordinator, Aeryk Pierson, bringing to his volunteer role the zealousness and dedication one would bring to a highly-paid job, with detailed maps, spreadsheets, and extra research in tow.
• The sunny, cheerful demeanor of Writefest Volunteer Coordinator, Raul Herrera, lightening the burden of  so many unresolved questions at our meetings.
• Purchasing the pretty water bottles in the photo to the right, to help our presenters and participants stay hydrated.

I wish I could say that every moment over the last nine months of planning has brimmed with joy, but that isn’t life, as we know. As we dedicate long hours to writing emails, making phone calls, and updating spreadsheets, Writespace’s staff and volunteers have faced the typical enormous doses of stress and anxiety that come with trying to pull off something amazing with very little money—such as, wondering whether acoustics will be an issue in our super-cool but unconventional cement-floored event space, or waiting to hear back on that contract or from that volunteer we are relying on, who also has a full-time job, kids, and a house under construction post-Harvey, to boot.

Yet people are coming through, are responding to our mission, through the crush of their lives. Slowly but surely, plans are falling into place. When you are brave and you love to do the right thing, this tends to happen, regardless of the hardships along the way. We keep the faith because we take great joy in getting to inspire, fulfill, and guide you, Dear Writer.

If you will be in town the first week of May and you haven’t yet bought tickets to Writefest, get thy tickets, posthaste! If you already have tickets, please feast deeply on the fun and inspiration that is Writefest. As you do so, remember the ocean of work that we have swum through to bring you this gift.

And feel special, because you are.

Feel loved, because you are.

Twenty-three poems, stories, and essays were submitted to editors and agents at Writespace this past Saturday, March 31st, at our very first Get Published Party. Twenty-three pieces that on that day, at that hour, probably would have otherwise stayed in the dusky purgatory of ten Houston writers’ hard drives. I love that we helped this happen.

But at 4:15 p.m., fifteen minutes before the event, I still didn’t know how our first Submissions Party would go. I assisted our event leader, Hilary Ritz, who pitched the idea to me a little over two months ago, by wiping down the whiteboard and pulling out nametags from the bins in the bookcases as she set out chocolate to fuel our adventure. I greeted writers as they arrived and made their name tags. Things were revving up, but regardless of how much we plan, every time we host a new event, we take a hearty step into the unknown. Every attempt to support writers in a new way delivers a thrill of creative adventure much like the thrill of writing, and this is one of the reasons I love my job.

When ten writers were seated around the table, Hilary introduced herself and asked the group, “What will you be sending out?” The range of genres was amazing, from poems to personal essays to literary fiction stories to fantasy novels. Hilary’s helper, Marcia Dao, asked, “What kind of music do you all want to listen to?” We landed on the “Nightmares on Wax” Pandora station, which provided the perfect chill atmosphere for what might have otherwise, had we been alone at our desks at home, been tense moments, in that here we were taking the culmination of dozens or hundreds of hours of hard work, these precious words we’ve poured our hearts into, and sending them out into the vast reaches of the publishing universe, to be read by people we do not know and may never meet, propelled by the hope that these strangers will like or even love our words well enough to publish them, so that our words can reach hundreds, thousands, or even millions of others we do not know and may never meet.

When you consider what it means to submit writing, when you contemplate the depth of courage it takes to give complete strangers the power to accept or reject that which is precious to us, that which we have stolen valuable time from our family and work lives to make, when you realize how brave we must be in order to intentionally and repeatedly make our deepest selves vulnerable to strangers, for the sake of bringing others joy or communion through our words, the act of hitting “Submit” is heroic. Writers are courageous, and this is why I love you all and why I am devoting my life to supporting you.

At the party, each time one of us submitted, we clapped and cheered, delighted that one of us had been brave again. By the end, we had submitted to twenty-three diverse places, from obscure sci-fi journals to Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction to New Republic and The Atlantic to literary agents in NYC. And we did it together, with questions and laughter and cheering and popcorn and chocolate and cupcakes keeping us going. In the moment, lulled by the soft electronica music and the sound of typing and other writers breathing and hoping right beside us, hitting the “Submit” button could almost feel easy, but it never was. We knew what we were doing, and it was big.

Learn more about Writespace Get Published Parties here.

Every now and then, I walk into Writespace and see new Poets & Writers magazines in the freebie pile or craft books in the bookcase. The first time this happened, I paused, feeling puzzled. Who put these here? I didn’t know. The items could have been contributed by a faithful writing student, a writing instructor, or a board member. They could have been donated by someone who joined a Saturday 600 Write-In. Whoever left them did not leave a note.

Once the shock passed, I felt a secret thrill of pride—not egotistical pride, but impersonal pride, like I was proud to be human and proud to get to play a part in something larger than I am. Sure, it seems like a small thing: magazines.
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But it isn’t just magazines. There’s no more amazing love than the love that humans can show toward those they haven’t even met. Through Writespace, I get to see this love every day. I even get to see it in big ways, such as through the donations that help us keep going and help us provide scholarships to writers in need. While my role as Writespace’s Executive Director is challenging and often marked by a feeling that there is ten times more work stacked up than I could ever accomplish in a day, I’m also deeply blessed to get to contribute and create opportunities for others to contribute.

I don’t have a television or watch the news, because news stations tend to focus on bad news that kills hope, rather than on good news that builds hope, and I believe in building, rather than killing. But when I’m in a restaurant that has a TV blaring the freshest news of disaster over my delicious hickory hamburger or tofu pho soup or tuna sashimi, I see a world being depicted in which important things are not given, but taken away—whether it’s dignity and respect, automobiles, life savings, or even lives. Always, always, there is nothing I can easily do to help. I can, though, go back to work and help in the way that’s available to me. I can let go of thoughts of theft and death and return to a good place I have created, one in which things are given rather than taken. Given freely, without anything requested in return.

And, of course, it’s not just Writespace. Literary endeavors are often characterized by generosity because ultimately we are all creating stories that are meant to be gifts to those we don’t even know. A spirit of giving imbues most literary endeavors. Thank you for participating in whatever ways you do.

A year or two ago, these mugs appeared in front of our "Free Mags" sign:

I want to take a moment to tell you about a volunteer I love dearly. Her name is Leslie Archibald. She serves as Writespace’s volunteer coordinator; her picture is below. Leslie has been volunteering with Writespace for two and a half years, or for more than half of Writespace’s existence (in May, Writespace turns four). 

When she first came to Writespace, writing was a mere dream for Leslie. But throughout her time volunteering with us and attending our events, her writing practice has blossomed. In 2017 she won Spider Road Press' Spider's Web Flash Fiction Prize. Furthermore, she's now midway through the draft of her first novel. Furthermore, she’s now midway through the draft of her first novel. We are proud of all that Leslie has accomplished on the writing front, and at the same time, not surprised, because we have seen the same level of commitment in her work as Writespace’s volunteer coordinator.

Some of you may have seen Leslie at workshops. Seen her, but perhaps not heard her, because Leslie tends to quietly observe, rather than dance in the limelight. Behind the calm, quiet exterior, though, Leslie is a total powerhouse. After big events, such as Writefest, our staff and volunteers tend to feel as dead as the squished squirrel your tires roll past on the street. We have been working nonstop for weeks to make things happen. We’ve missed sleep, tender moments with family, and gobs of reading and writing time to be able to pull off the event. Regardless of these generous sacrifices, when we’ve all surpassed the point of exhaustion and most of our wonderful volunteers have listened to the voice of reason and headed home to sanity, Leslie will be the one to stick around in the dead zone and help me carry out the trash, break down boxes for recycling, and sweep the floors.

Leslie is quietly and powerfully always here at Writespace, smiling and ready to do whatever we need, no matter how dull or dirty the task. She is a warrior for the good and utterly fearless in her ability to say yes to tasks, even those she might not otherwise choose to do, such as picking up pizza for our volunteers when she’s trying to make healthier eating choices; emailing a volunteer who didn’t show up to help, as promised; or leading a volunteer team meeting that challenges her natural shyness. What is most remarkable about Leslie's dedication is the grace, kindness, and humility which which she performs these tasks. She is all smiles and totally willing, without even a shadow of resentment. I don’t know what makes Leslie so sweet, so good, so full of love for writers and Writespace’s mission, but to me, she embodies the very essence of what our endeavor is about. 

Thank you, Leslie, for all that you do. When I feel tired, you remind me of the good.

Starting today,  I am initiating a short column I’m calling “Writespace Speaks.” Here I will celebrate the beauty of books and the practice of writing, as well as share Writespace news, my personal reflections on our events, and my desires for our community.

​I have always tried to shy away from the spotlight at Writespace, because I’ve known that Writespace belongs to the community, not to me. I’ve carefully avoided turning Writespace into my “platform” from which to boost my own writing career and my preferred genres, beliefs, and opinions. I’ve tried my best to pay attention to what our community has needed and wanted, in hopes that our community would rise up and “own” Writespace. I feel like now, after three and a half years, based on the tremendous engagement of our volunteers, members, and workshop participants, that day has come and my desire for the community to “own” Writespace is on the verge of coming true. So I now feel safe enough to come out from behind the scenes and let myself be known.

​And so, as we grow, you will be hearing from me—and, perhaps from others. Thank you for being a part of the writing community’s rising up to own Writespace. Stay tuned, you will be hearing more from me soon!