What became clear to me on day 3? At Dairy Hollow was I wanted to build my fiction writing muscle. Non-fiction is super easy for me to jump into. After fifteen years of solid writing practice, I know my non-fiction voice and can jump into it as easily as changing clothes. But, I do not have as much practice with my fiction writing. It feels harder, scarier, more daunting—so I shy away from doing it and choose the easy route (non-fiction) most of the time.
It sucks to feel bad at something. But, I know I’m not bad. I’m just un-practiced.
As I leave the hollow my goal is to go back to what I know works. I’ll 8 is Great my way through fiction writing practice and dedicate the rest of the summer to building my fiction muscle in the morning. The non-fiction writing will still happen in the evenings, because even if I’m worn out by that time I can easily step into NF writing voice and get some work done.
And as for Dairy Hollow, here’s a bit about my first exploration around Eureka Springs. (No edits or rewrites, below you see how a zero draft in NF comes out for me. I’ve just transcribed it from my handwritten journal. I did add paragraph breaks –there were none in the entry– because most of you are reading on screens & it makes it infinitely easier to have more white space. ) It’s a charming little town that I strongly suggest you stop by if you have the chance.
***
6/18/25
I went on a walk this morning. It’s like a mountain threw up a Victorian town in the late 1800s and its clinging to it for dear life—before it slides down the side of the hill. Nature clamors to reclaim it, pushing up 200 year old limestone sidewalks. Springs trickling along the main blvd.
I started by going up, up, up a steep gravel road. A path split off into an amphitheater and a hint of a trail led to steps that took you to the haunted hotel atop the hill. I met a matted, long-haired black cat, and was grateful for the chance to pet him. The bellboy said to follow the magnolia trail down the back side of the hotel. There was a little curated chapel? Monastery? As I feared I missed the trail—but a staked sign in the foliage told me to enter there.
I wound between houses half swallowed by woods. Precarious stone sidewalks slick from last nights storm. Down steep streets until I spilled onto the serpentine main boulevard (Spring Street). Left at the post office per the bell boy’s scant direction and continued down hill through candy-colored Victorian store fronts. A full sign promising tarot/spirituality readings is the only thing I took a photo of.
I continued downhill and saw the Andy from the Writers colony huffing up the sidewalk toward me. We backtrack to a coffeeshop/local bar place and he buys me an iced chai. He’s the person I’ve enjoyed most during my stay, quiet with good energy. I learn he’s a pastor and I’m glad there are pastors out there like him. He helps orient me. Explains our colony is up the main blvd about 20 min. I stay at the shop longer than him and book in for a reading tomorrow at 11 a.m.
The walk back is comparatively flat to the morning. The feel of long Victorian skirts swaying against slippery limestone walks. Neighbors on porches, assessing every movement, gossiping about who strolled with whom and catching the morning breeze before the humidity of the day squashes all life out of you. There’s a grotto/cave with half a dozen steps down the spring pres..[no idea what word I tried to write] cut into the side of the mountain. A type of place begging for exploration, but the danger of men unseen hiding in corners keeps a woman from exploring beyond the light of the entrance. It’s a space to come in pairs, when you have someone to watch your back. But the only thing at my back is the Dead Victorian Bootleggers who carved this town from stone.