The room had a queen size bed with arched metal pipe head and foot boards—the type you would see in an old farmhouse. It was an inviting room. Quiet. Sun-drenched. And somehow, I knew this was a room for writing.
Up the stairs I explored another room. This one had several twin-size beds, but it was currently unoccupied. I waited in the room knowing there was someone I was supposed to meet. I do not know who it was or why I was supposed to meet them, but it had something to do with learning, writing, perhaps a message?
The words dairy hollow dairy hollow dairy hollow. Over and over and over again.
I wake up. “Dairy hollow,” I say out loud trying to keep the dream in my brain. I stumble to my computer, click on the search bar, and when the results fill my screen all I can think is, I guess I’m doing this now.
I sit down with my morning fluffy-tea and grab my planner. I fill in the day’s TO DO printing the words apply for writing residency.
After lunch I click on the application button. 10-page writing sample, meh. Bio, yuck. CV, super-yuck. I pull up a word doc to cobble together an updated bio like the one in my book proposal… oh wait, my book proposal. Everything I need is right there. I copy and paste. The application process complete in less than seven minutes.
Ten days later and email comes in: “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted for a residency! The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow.”
I call to confirm dates. The nice woman on the phone asks, “Which room would you like?”
“Is there one with a metal head & foot board? With a thick, curved, silver metal pipe that arcs slightly?”
“Yes, the Maya Angelou suite.”
“That’s the one I need, please.”
I go in June. For a week. I don’t know why I’m supposed to go, or what I will write. But it feels like it’s going to be good. Important even.
All I know for sure, is when a message comes in that loud, that crystal clear, not doing it seems a lot more dangerous than finding out who (or what) is waiting there for me.
Jessica
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