Subject: The Middle of Nowhere?

Iowa City, Iowa, Summer 1998 - First reaction of friends and acquaintances: "What do you wanna go there for? Boring, flat, nothing but cornfields. Pretty far from the sea, too."

"Iowa Writers' Workshop" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iww/ doesn't ring a bell all that often, and "Iowa Summer Writing Festival" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iswfest/ not at all. Good thing I went anyway.

First thing I notice is that it isn't flat at all. These people never heard of Holland? German west coast? Now, that is flat, whereas here I see gently rolling hills, very green - and a lot of destruction from a tornado or something that hit the place just before I arrived.
A River Runs Through It (the middle of the city), brimming with water, colored green by algae. Weeping willows by its side remind me of "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of The Rings". "This is beautiful!" I think, wondering if even one of my friends has ever been near the place.

But it is not only the looks which are enchanting. Maybe it is because of the summer holiday at the university or maybe it is always like that. I don't know and it doesn't really matter. The whole city feels as if it is still the early 70s. In the middle of the pedestrian zone, there's this jazz musician dude, playing his horn for spare change, busking. He's good, too. Squirrels and sparrows don't seem to have a care in the world, one can almost touch them. (One can touch them, my wife tells me one year later.)

I book into the least expensive accommodation around, which happens to be a dormitory called "The Mayflower" about a mile out of town. Weird feeling to be in a dorm - always had my own flat and so the experience is novel. Apropos novel, the cab driver that dropped me off, has two published and is working on his third. Later in the evening I walk into a smoky Irish pub which is pretty empty. Start talking to the bartender. He's a published writer, too.

"These guys making fun of me?" I wonder. I guess I do look like one of the about 1,200 people who are expected for the writing festival. Later on I find out that they weren't making fun of me, but that they have to make money somehow. They like the place, stay around, but jobs are scarce. Writing obviously doesn't pay.

The weeks of the program are like being stoned all the time. Euphoria? Suddenly there are so many people to talk to and nobody thinks it is strange. Almost everybody is serious about writing and many came from far away. I even run into another guy from Taipei. Awesome!

I get up very early, maybe six o'clock, and read fellow students' manuscripts, scribbling notes between the lines and on the margin. Breakfast consists of Doritos and a can of Coke - no time for anything else. Then morning classes, mostly spent discussing manuscripts. Lunch at Taco Bell's, with another student, still discussing stuff. Afternoon classes pretty much like in the morning. Dinner often in a group - we are getting to know one another. Twelve students per class, a pretty good group.

Bar or pub only occasionally, there is simply not enough time. There are reading and writing assignments, eleven manuscripts per class to read and critique, and by the time I am finished it is often past midnight. Never before have I worked so hard. And it certainly has never been that much fun, either.

After four or five weeks of this my time is up. I fly back, my head brimming (and swimming) and one thing I know for sure. I'll be back next year.

Now what happened to my boat drink? :-)))

Cheers!

Holg

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