There and Back Again

One humorist to unite them all.

Okay, I’m no Tolkien—not even a Bilbo Baggins--but I believe I’ve just returned from an adventure to another world and as Bilbo did, I am here to provide an account of it.

I finally made my way to Dayton, Ohio--on purpose--to attend the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. I went alone, although I was met by another pilgrim at the airport, whereupon there was immediate recognition as a fellow traveler. Of course, we follow each other on Facebook, so there was no doubt we’d recognize each other, but we both could feel that we’d made similar journeys. We met another traveler—whose identity we confirmed by her Facebook page—and the three of us set our course to the Dayton Riviera and the Marriott Hotel therein. 

Almost immediately, the energy of this new world pulled us in and fortunately most of us had our supplies in roller bags allowing us to keep up. We were divvied up into our personal quarters, where there was an abundance of herbs, reflection and the occasional drumming to maintain our states of mind. A functioning and user-friendly AC unit wasn’t bad, either.

We gathered in the great hall and began to share our stories, presided over by a lord who clearly possessed the gifts of logic and light and weaved the initial spell that entranced—and united—us all. Then, a great storyteller appeared and granted us the wisdom to see beyond the first paragraph and on to the second. As simple as that sounds, it was a lot to take in. I needed some rest. I don’t know about the other travelers, but this traveler needed to head back to her room to get some sleep and maybe a snack. If the first night was any indication of what was to come, I was going to need some energy.

And it was an indication; throughout the weekend magical creatures and wizards and enchantresses walked in and among us as if it was something they did every day. You can tell they’re magical because of the color of their hair. I’ve never seen so much pink and purple and teal strands on so many women’s heads. (There were a few men, too, but they appeared to stick with the traditional salt and pepper—or just salt.) The celebrated gathered us into small groups to impart their own brand of knowledge to those of us just setting out on our journeys. And they took pictures with us! Like they were normal people who could talk to us on elevators and at dinner.

Alan Zweibel, Leighann Lord and a pilgrim.

And what talk. The language of kindness and love and acceptance is spoken here. The fear of imposters was banished by lightmakers and warriors. Queens and princesses and survivors, singers, poets and artists shared gems and jewels and draughts of wisdom that seemed at times overwhelming in its generosity. I shared a meal with a trusted advisor—an opportunity otherwise impossible in my real world. And of course, Lady Galadriel—I mean Teri--was unflappable and presided over this world as if she was made of its very essence.

When the morning came to depart, we all said good-byes to our new friends and fellow travelers. We promised to stay in touch and follow each other on Instagram. And we drew away from each other with the sweet sorrow of watching a beloved go, but with the certainty of knowing they’d return. Some day. (In 17 months, actually.)

What is it that makes me so emotional and nostalgic about this conference? Is it because, right now, my real world is filled with the unknown? A daily level of stress that I don’t always notice, but is always present, quiet and persistent? Maybe. I only spent three days at the conference, although it seemed like so many more. Maybe it was the chance to be among my people, other writers forging their way through this calling. I could devote my full time and attention to this work I don’t actually have to do. But I do want to do it. I want to write. And I thrived in that world, that nation.

Our Erma Nation.