Nearly one in the afternoon and I haven’t checked in for my cabin assignment yet. I’ve done laundry, my hair, my nails, my husband’s shirt, dishes and a smoothie, and still haven’t checked in. Was it like this the first time I went to camp? I was barely into the double digits when older sis and I were shipped off to Crystal Lake. Yeah, ominous resonances – but we knew nothing of them at the time. I remember being in Tonda, the cabin for the second to youngest campers, if I recollect correctly. Everything seemed damp, cold and dark to me. I’m certain the expression on my face was a far cry from those splattered across the Fresh Air Fund insert in yesterday’s Times though I was a kid who lived in the city, I’d been born in the tropics and no body of water can hold a candle to the Caribbean in my heart’s eye.
Thankfully, Camp NaNoWriMo is a virtual gathering of folk who intend to create something worth reading by month’s end. I’m not working on a novel but hope to create some type of narrative to accompany a collection of letters written to our Mother, mostly from our Father, the year before we emigrated. It’s thrilling (tragic, pathetic, surprising, simply sad) to notice that even this many decades away from all things childhood, I can still evaporate into the wallpaper of my own life and leave what’s important to me for the last thing on the to-do list. I plant my flag on the highest point at Camp NaNoWriMo and declare an end to whatever gets in my writing way this month and henceforth.
In the meantime, I am encouraged by team submissions for the World Literature Collaborative Midterm. Check them out at trylistening.weebly.com/MidtermFeedback