I wish I knew how many times I tried to rein-in my off-task third and fourth graders with the expression, “We’re writers during writing time. What do writers do? We write!”
Not today. Today the group of Women Who Write (WWW) gather to celebrate.
I leave my house early for a Saturday morning and drive almost two hours north for Madison, NJ to meet my tribe, my critique partners, my friends. The blue June sky is expansive with possibility. Traffic parts before me like an omen of smooth-sailing ahead, and I arrive at the Community House before anyone else.
Inside, I find a closet to hang the robin’s-egg-blue and gold-sequined gown Megha loaned me and search for something to do to fill my time so anxiety won’t overwhelm the joy I’m feeling for today’s special event. It’s launch-day for WWW’s Goldfinch Literary Magazine.
Long ago, during the event planning, Prachi voiced aloud her dream of starting a flash mob of Bollywood dancers. For reasons I don’t recall, I agreed to help her see this dream come true. Yes, me. The old white lady whose knees and back protest at sudden movements, agreed to shake her booty in front of a crowd.
Megha and Prachi, more authentic Bollywood types than I, arrive. We unload the car, heat up Indian food, hang colorful silk scarves, and scatter authentic subcontinent decorations to create a festive atmosphere. Close to noon, guests stream in. The women I usually meet on the flat Zoom screen weave through the room in 3-D. Some, I greet in person for the first time, a special event in its own right. I am among precious women whose work I admire. They inspire me to aspire. The word wrestling we share creates a kinship, a sisterhood I feel but cannot put on paper. Being in their number bubbles ebullience like a first sip of champagne.
The flavors on my plate bite back in my mouth. Spicy and warm; that’s what we are. We applaud authentically at the end of each reading. Funny, poignant, poetic, truthful, painful. . . it’s all in there. Prachi reads my bio and I rise, buoyed by the supporting energy of the room. I’m reading an emotional piece, and I don’t want to fall into sobbing at the end. Thankfully, I finish with only the smallest catch in my throat.
After the last reader, Kim, Megha, Prachi, and I flee to a back room and get ourselves decked out for the dances. I giggle nervously and Kim says, “We’ll just pretend we’re in back in Megha’s basement.” I hand Megha a bindi and say, “Can you put that in the right place for me?”
After we first assembled at Megha’s for practice, I’d confessed my fears to my son. “Why am I doing this?” Worst case scenarios of colossal mess-ups flashed through my head. “I’m afraid of becoming a joke on tiktok.”
“Mom. Come on! You know if that happened, you’d be totally fine.” I contemplated his words and decided he was probably right. At sixty years old, I would be okay in ways my younger self would never believe.
Now comes the moment we’ve practiced for. Megha introduces us with an analogy about the dance of writing and the beauty of expressing our stories through movement. She and Prachi enchant the audience with a dance so sublime I’m left in wonderment. Next, as the applause dies down, Kim and I take places slightly behind them and await the first notes of, “Chamak Challo.”
“Dance like no one is watching.” The advice given by Lori’s guest rings in my ear. No more time for worries that I might forget the next step, that I might trip on my skirt, that I might blind everyone with the exposed white skin of my arms. Decide now: Will you go through the motions you’ve practiced, or dance? Which will it be, Kate?
The familiar notes begin. At the singer’s first “Hey!” up goes my arm and out sways my hip. The movements come automatically. I slip into the rhythm and just dance. I take my eyes off Megha’s and Prachi’s polished moves to see Kim beside me, bopping up and down like she’s sixteen again, and I want to laugh with the joy of this moment.
Prachi’s dream comes true as a throng of Women Who Write file in behind us and join our next Bollywood hip-hop number. What do writers do? Today, we dance!
Your turn: I tell myself mantras like, “Don’t just hit your notes, sing.” I recently added, “You can go through the movements, or dance.” Do you have a saying to remind yourself to live in the moment and enjoy being creative?
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