Writing Marathon

I sink into a chair at the library's Internet Cafe, enjoying the air conditioning after my stroll through the cemetery. While entering the cemetery, Christy and I noticed a tombstone for a woman. Her name was in small print, followed by "Wife of ______." We chuckled, then separated.

My eyes caught a familiar name, so I wandered closer to double check. I am sorry to report the death of Charlie Brown. I knew his creator had died, but I was unaware of Charlie Brown's demise. Perhaps we should write a eulogy. I wonder how it happened. Was it spontaneous combustion? Anger overwhelmed him as Lucy jerked the football away one time too many.

I eye the Coke machine. It eyes me back, flirting with me, calling me toward it. I resist temporarily, but decide to grab a bottle of Dasani water before I leave for Drexel Park for the next outdoor leg of the marathon. It's hot: sweat-dripping, forehead-dotting, back-trickling hot. "Please don't be butt-wet hot," I pray.

I think back to the cemetery and remember the leper grave. I'm not being disrespectful--or, at least, I don't mean to be. One grave sits in a sea of grass, no graves near it. I wonder why. It's an old grave. Why isn't it crowded? The man lived to be 84 years old. The tombstone mentions he's a father, but no family members rest beside him. A mystery. Mysteries engage me. I want to know more.

Next year perhaps we'll do the writing marathon the first week. Or maybe we'll do it by car. I'll ask folks what they think. What do y'all think? Let me know. It also seems better to do it early in the Summer Institute when we're still in discovery mode, more focused on freewriting, on getting stuff onto the page. Now we're more into editing mode as we try to pull together our portfolios, polishing our drafts.

Ten minutes remain. The glass on the Coke machine door glints at me, trying to entice me. I'm still hot. Maybe I should go visit over there.