DianeB

If you have followed my dispatches over these past dozen years, maybe I'm amazed, as Sir Paul once sang. I have no insights to offer, only my story. For this year's installment of self reflection, permit me to share a lesson I've learned. It's really the only one that matters, because it's the one that's kept me going. By now it's impossible to conceal that writing has been part of my life from my early years. My first grade teacher asked each of us to bring in something to read to the class. Something awakened in me. I pushed the stand bearing my sister's Royal typewriter to the end of the bed, hung my feet over the edge, and started tapping. I would not be caught dead reading from a comic book in front of my classmates, so I transcribed several panels from my copy of Walt Disney's "Man In Space". The comic was essentially the storyboards for the episode from the celebrated series on space exploration. I had not yet figured out the Shift key, and sis was out with her pals, but it would do. This is likely how a group of six year olds first learned, in all lower case, about isaac newton's laws of motion and space medicine. And how I quickly acquired a rap sheet at St. Andrew's Day School. First teaching experience at age six, first test tubes at seven, first exposure to guitar — my classmate Leslie's — at nine, and at sixteen I was submitting my idea of fiction from the selfsame Royal to Seventeen, Scholastic, Redbook, and Ingenue (may the latter rest in peace). I still have the rejection slips. "Congratulations," my English teacher reassured me, "You've been rejected at the professional level. Just keep writing." College life as a chemistry major left little time for extra humanities. But I shoehorned in a course on the short story. Here was an oasis from the endless stream of lab reports: Crane, Cather, Anderson, Steinbeck, Welty, O'Connor. It was John Updike who killed my fledgling side gig in fiction, specifically with "The Doctor's Wife," which he published when he was 29. I was 20. I recognized a bitter truth: I would never write a story like that. In my disappointment, I did not notice what the endless stream of lab reports was doing for me. Soon I would write and publish my own research. It can be found around the world in the Journal of Organic Chemistry. No rejection slips this time. Over the years, other bylines would follow, because I just kept writing. That is my thesis today. I will never write like John Updike or play guitar like Bonnie Raitt. Instead, I must stand in admiration. We understand how hazardous the word "never" can be, but it often simply represents reality. Take heart, brothers and sisters, reality is our ally. It points us toward our destinies. Magic awaits. Herewith the cold, hard reality about writing — and guitar playing, if you transpose — from someone who knows. What follows is everything I know about how to write good fiction.... I love this job. I want you to love it, too. But if you don't want to work your ass off, you have no business trying to write well — settle back into competency and be grateful that you have even that much to fall back on. There is a muse, but he's not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He's a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all of the grunt work, in other words, while the muse sits and smoke cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is fair? I think it's fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he's on duty), but he's got the inspiration. It's right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There's stuff in there that can change your life. Believe me, I know. — Stephen King, On Writing (c) 2000

@Cindy Hi, Cindy, it's good to see you back! After that first year here in our new home, the discussion board has quieted considerably. Doug and I monitor it daily, but there's only about a dozen regular visitors. Traffic picks up when Steve has a Live Lesson, as people download the accompanying files. I think there are multiple reasons. DVDs have fallen out of fashion, and Legacy no longer offers the course on physical media; apparently they licensed the content to Udemy. Steve has found a niche and likely has little interest in duplicating what's available through multiple streaming services. There's also a general fatigue around social media now. It's mostly reposts and videos and emoji, and few people seem to have either the patience or capacity to write posts in comprehensible, complete sentences. I find it sad. I was part of the last cohort of any size to start out with the LMG course, and that was twelve years ago. I've seen maybe three or four people report completing the main course or the fingerstyle course in that time. I'm just not one of them. Even years ago, we observed that once someone reached about session eight, their participation dropped off. Maybe they hit a wall or lost interest. Maybe they learned how to teach themselves. The good news is that a significant number of us still remain connected through Steve's Live Lessons and conferences. The fingerstyle retreat is thriving, but the summer gathering remains on hiatus while Steve locates a new venue. Attendance dropped off steadily post-covid; enrollment at Trevecca took a hit and revenue with it, and Trevecca raised the facility rental fees beyond Steve's budget. We wait to see if anything materializes for this summer. Meanwhile, Doug and I tend to the housekeeping here. Since I last heard from you, I've completed several music theory courses at the local university and lots of private lessons. So when the occasional theory question comes around, I can usually field it, as you and BenBob used to do so well. I enjoyed a two year stint in my neighborhood band, and lately play the occasional open mic. This is my way of giving back. I really look forward to seeing the gang in Nashville every year. You'll find my reports in the conferences section. Hope to see you as a regular again! Happy Thanksgiving, and best wishes!

And the explosion is about to go off. At the time, the primary AM radio station in the Tidewater, Virginia market was WGH. They published their weekly Top 30 on these fliers and placed them wherever records were sold. I collected them from about 1963-65, and I how I would love to have them back. I think my mom tossed them, because I wouldn't have (sigh). A high school classmate saved a few, like this one. The DJs were household names: Bob Calvert, Gene Loving, Keith James, Richard Lamb, George Crawford. WGH sponsored the local premiere of "A Hard Day's Night", which I attended with a neighbor friend. My oversized souvenir ticket is gone, too (really deeeeep sigh). I remember well the long line outside, the opening chord, then 90 minutes of pubescent female screaming. Priceless.

Epilog Amy and I are safely home. We sang our way northeast along the interstates for two days and 800 miles, harmonizing to Mary Chapin-Carpenter (we passed her general vicinity in Virginia), the Indigo Girls, and whoever else turned up on her Pandora playlist. Already we're making our plans for next year. Thanks for reading my modest diary. Much was omitted for lack of time. I've discovered that when I compose these posts in another app, then copy and paste them here, the text is sometimes illegible on other devices. I apologize for the annoyance, and I suspect the issue lies with this web site. Sigh. Steve faces a dilemma: how to open up the retreat to all who want to attend while maintaining its intimacy. I don't have an answer: thirty students, as this year, seems to be the limit to the current arrangement. This time the weather was perfect. But cold, wind, or rain might present other challenges as we shuttle between buildings in the future. Collin, Tim Lerch, and Christie Lenée were all terrific. But I tip my denim hat and bow to all those who offered a student performance. We had three times as many participants this year as last. Way to go, everyone! We had covers, originals, the mirthful, and the mournful. And to all who were there whether in person or in spirit, you — whose generosity and encouragement and humor and artistry have kept me from going off the rails along this journey — may your music always be a comfort. Nurture it, cherish it, and put it out there in this world that craves it so. IMG_3544.mov IMG_3548.mov

Never mind the concerts, here’s a taste of the heart-stopping cornhole action: IMG_3531.mov

Sunday: the outro. The lodge came to life about 6:30, earlier than usual. We fueled up on pancakes, and one more time, up the hill, around the bends, past the lake, by the cabins, through the swarm of eighth grade girls, up to Valley View. Steve made final announcements and we welcomed Christie Lenée back for her workshop. She touched on (sorry, had to) tapping, hammer-ons and pull offs, the mentality of practicing, and connecting with the music inside oneself. We celebrated our host and hostess one more time, then it was time to say goodbye. Some left from Valley View, at least one met a Uber at the front gate, while the rest of us returned to the lodge to retrieve our luggage. Hugs, handshakes, shouts, and waves. Amy and I sent our roommate Barb off with hugs, loaded our loaner Corolla, and set off for lunch in downtown Franklin. With the sunshine of another perfect day above, my faithful friend and copilot alongside me, I recalled a byword of Deer Run: I am blessed.

Okay, it’s late, but here’s the Saturday report. So sorry, but it was such a full day, I could not manage to post at bedtime. The shuttling between venues is taking extra time and energy. Our day started with Steve’s lesson on using a looper creatively. More student performances, including Barb. Steve apparently had time to fill, so I had a solo slot for “Melissa,” which I sent out to our departed friends Gregg Cobler and Paul Opitz. Collin’s masterclass rounded out the morning sessions. Then it was back to the lodge for lunch and workshops with Collin on intervals and Steve on “Ashoken Farewell”. We scattered for the final cornhole rounds, solitary practice, impromptu duets, setups with Julio, phone calls, snacks, coffee, and naps. Now, for Saturday night at Deer Run: first, presentation of the coveted Cornhole Championship trophies (again) to the Nasholes! On to the drawing for the door prizes, which has now evolved into a strategic exercise more convoluted than a back door ii-V-I. Your name is drawn! But — if you have more than one chance to win — do you pass, in hope of snagging a bigger prize? I passed on winning a subscription to Acoustic Guitar magazine because I already subscribe, and I had three chances to win (attendee, cornhole contestant, student performer). It paid off, as later I won a guitar strap and took the sure thing. There were Fishman micro Loudbox amps, Fishman pickups, and the big prize, a Fender acoustic to Dave White. The Main Event: fingerstyle master Christie Lenée’s concert was dazzling, moving, exhilirating. Afterwards, we decompressed over popcorn, sodas, and decaf. Christie had CDs and tees; Paulette had a new line of Guitar Gathering caps. Another nighttime caravan back to the lodge, where it fell quiet rather quickly. IMG_3577.mov

Friday’s first business: I left my nylon string guitar with Julio at the lodge for a tune up. Navigating to the Valley View building is much easier by day than having to rely on the stars. Steve led us through basic pattern exercises, then we had a few student performances, in a variation from our past schedules. I accompanied Amy in a duet of “Long May You Run”, which she re-dedicated to my Camry. Student songs were followed by Tim Lerch’s masterclass, with insights on playing over chords. Another hop back to the lodge for our lunch of club sandwiches. The food, and even the food service, is improved over last year, when meals seemed to be running a bit behind schedule. We split our drowsy heads into two groups: half for Collin Hill’s workshop, and the other half for Steve on arranging for fingerstyle. The next hour, we switched places I collected my spiffed up Cordoba from Julio, then it was break time, for naps, chilling out, and the first round of the cornhole tourney. My team, the Dead Earpieces, was quickly obliterated, so I retired for a short nap before dinner. After more student performances, Collin Hill led off the evening concert. We all were left to wonder, “How much better can he get?” In a new twist, Steve brought in a drummer and upright bass player for a trio, and he clearly had a ball. Good to see, after all the work he puts into these retreats. Cherry and raspberry cobbler with ice cream finished off our day.

Arrival day dawned sunny and bright and frost on the (rented) car’s windshield in the hotel parking lot. As I let the wipers work, Dave White materialized at my window. “You’re here!” “Where else would I be?” We caught up on the situation in Asheville. Dave had a much longer, arduous trip through Atlanta to Nashville, and was too tired the previous night to meet Amy and me for dinner. Dave set off for breakfast, and Amy and I rehearsed our song a while. Satisfied with it, we toured the Parthenon at Centennial Park, then it was off to Gruhn’s. Inside we met Benjamin, Michael, and Greg Voros. Some early bird retreaters were there, too. Greg arranged for Amy and I to go upstairs to see George, who showed off his Versitars. We made the short walk to Hattie B’s for lunch, then it was off through the Franklin countryside to Deer Run. Steve welcomed us and explained the new logistics associated with the second venue. After a short lesson, we sat down for our lasagna dinner, then immediately formed a caravan of cars up to the Valley View building for a concert by Tim Lerch. The caravan then retraced its steps though the winding road in the woods back to the lodge — not without the occasional detour — for s’mores around the fire pit while Greg Voros held court. We laughed ourselves weary and called it a day.

A brilliant fall day found the Persistent Purple Picking Pair rocking down the highway right to Ryman Auditorium. It’s Amy’s first visit to Nashville. I wanted her to get the immersive experience, so after touring the Mother Church, we hit Lower Broadway. Today’s crazy level was a manageable 3/10, so our eardrums and dignity survived the hike intact. Even the midweek rush hour traffic moved along. We had time to relax in our rooms at the Franklin-Cool Springs Holiday Inn, then we set a heading for Alexander’s in the Galleria district for dinner. It wouldn’t be right to describe our fare and make my readers heartsick with envy. But I’ll do it anyway: spectacular veggie burger and spaghetti squash for my nutrition-conscious pal, and pecan encrusted swordfish over couscous for this reporter. Oh yeah, peanut butter pie to finish — with French pressed coffee to fend off the cool Nashville night.