Hey, everyone. I'm writing this on my second to last day of my residency at Goddard College in Port Townsend, Washington. I'm an MFA in Creative Writing candidate. And after 44 years on this planet I have found my people.

Four years ago, I started college at Tacoma Community College in the Human Services program. I did it because I had been unemployed for six months and if I enrolled in college I would get another six months of unemployment. I chose the Human Services program because when it came to a future career I thought that perhaps being a therapist wouldn't be a bad way to make a living and it was something I could see myself doing for many years. My experience in TCC's Human Services department was great. I made a few friends. I learned quite a lot. And it was a good introduction to the human services industry.

Two years ago, I enrolled at Evergreen Tacoma. I did this still thinking I was going to be a therapist. I chose Evergreen Tacoma because it was located about a mile away from where I lived and its rich African American heritage interested me since I sort of have the white guy thing down and was interested in other perspectives on life and society. Overall it was a good experience. I made a few friends and I really liked the progressive attitude and culture of Evergreen Tacoma. I also found a mentor in one of the professors, Dr. Peter Bacho, a fellow writer. In fact I liked it so much that when I found the opportunity to stay on campus in a Masters of Public Administration program I applied and was accepted.

Three months ago, I wrote in this newsletter about a convicted murderer who was attending Evergreen Tacoma and how I thought on one hand that the best place for a formerly incarcerated individual is college, but on the other hand, students should be made aware of potential dangers. Despite not identifying the person, nor condemning their presence on campus, I was accused and treated as though I had done both of those things. Unfortunately, Dr. Bacho was not available to help with my defense because he had a heart attack. (He's fine and recovering now.) The manner in which the rest of the faculty dealt with this situation I found so offensive that I chose to withdraw from the Evergreen Tacoma MPA program and quite frankly it gave me mixed feelings about Evergreen as a whole.

Two months ago, I was uncertain what I was going to do academically, professionally, or personally. I was lost. Then one day in late May while I was working in the Evergreen Tacoma Writing Center, I saw a brochure for Goddard College's low residency MFA in Creative Writing program. I quickly put together an application and submitted it the day before the deadline. I didn't have time to write even a second draft of my application essay. I'm not sure I even proofread it. This program has a 30% acceptance rate and no quota. So I was shocked when I was accepted to their program.

Exactly one week ago, I arrived at Fort Worden, an old army base on the northwest coast of Washington State that is now a state park and for twenty days every year (in July and February) it's the west coast campus for Goddard College, which is based in Vermont. I did not know what to expect. If you'd like to know what Fort Worden looks like, go and watch An Officer and a Gentleman. It was filmed here.

Upon arrival I found that there were a total of nine of us new students. Three men and six women. (All but one of us pictured above.) We range in ages from 22 to 64. This is considered a 'big' class. The class includes a director and playwright from Oregon, a documentary filmmaker from California, a couple of horror writers from Kansas and New York, a Southern poet, a Californian poet, a poet and nonfiction writer, a 22-year-old writer fresh out of a creative writing undergrad, and me. 

A couple days later the students on their second, third, and fourth semesters arrived. There was a total of about 25 of them. Over the next few days I'll get to know each of them very well. Some will become my closest new friends.

The way this low residency program works is that for the first eight days of the semester (ten if it's your first semester), we spend our time on campus. During this time we attend workshops, Master Classes, lectures, readings, and one on one meetings with our personal advisers. During these meetings each student works with their adviser to come up with their individual curriculum including the books we will be reading and the details of our thesis project. In my case, I'm working on a novel based on a true story. (I've been referring to it here as Project Untouchables.)

I initially enjoyed TCC. I initially loved Evergreen Tacoma. With Goddard it's something more than that. Though it's only been a week I feel like I've found where I was supposed to be all along. I'm not overstating it when I say that this has been one of the most important, profound, and just all around great weeks of my life. It's strange to say that when the week entirely consisted of interactions with people I literally did not know existed eight days ago. I feel like I've fallen in love with a community.

I'm not sure exactly how they choose who gets to go to Goddard. I've met some insanely talented writers before who were complete and total asshole human beings. That does not describe anyone here. Every single student here is someone I consider a friend. I'd buy a drink for any of them. I don't know how it's possible but I feel closer to the eight others in my cohort than I ever did to anyone from the previous colleges I attended and I've only known these people a week. I won't forget any of them as long as I live.

At Evergreen Tacoma, Dr. Bacho was the only full time staff who was a writer and that's fine I suppose for a college that isn't focusing on writing, but here at Goddard every member of the staff is a writer. I've spent the past week immersed in a population of ridiculously talented writers. The result is that every conversation I've had here has been one that I wanted to have. It's been incredible.

On our first day here we were told, "I promise you, we haven't made a mistake, you are in fact supposed to be here. You've earned it." I keep going back to that conversation because Impostor Syndrome is all too real. I have a big ego about my writing, but the fact that these people are my peers is still a little difficult to fully believe.

Goddard's program is not typical. Like Evergreen, there are no grades. But here there are also no real classes and no tests. There is work to turn in over the sixteen weeks of the semester after we leave residency. But no two students have the same curriculum. It's specifically based on whatever your Masters thesis happens to be.

In my case I'm reading seventeen books by such authors as James Ellroy, Raymand Chandler, Elmore Leonard, Don Winslow, Alice Munro, and Joan Didion. For each of them I'll be writing a two-three page paper focusing on a particular aspect of the writing craft.

As this week winds down, I know I've made some new lifelong friends. During one evening drinking and reading session at one of the houses, I said to the group of new friends, "I feel like I have found my people and I didn't think I really had people."

Another writer raised her hand and said, "Who here ever felt like they didn't have people?" Each one sitting on that porch raised their hands. Then we raised drinks to new friendships. In addition to all of this, I've also been named the nonfiction and graphic novel editor for The Pitkin Review, Goddard's literary journal. It's an unpaid position, but that makes me feel no less honored for the opportunity.

I apologize to those of you who were hoping for one of those regular newsletters I tend to do, but I had to talk about this. I can honestly say I've never felt better about my life than I do right now. And while the whole Evergreen thing last quarter left a bad taste in my mouth, I'm thankful that it happened because it helped me end up here in Goddard's MFA for Creative Writing program where for the first time in my life I really feel I belong.

And Now For Something Completely Different
Below is a piece of original fiction I wrote while I was here at Goddard this week. I thought I'd share it with you, my subscribers. Thank you for sticking around. And do me a favor and tell at least one other person about this newsletter this week. Tell them they should subscribe. The link is http://tinyletter.com/jackcameron
- Jack

The Case
By Jack Cameron

Summer 2012
“Bethany, I need you to do me a favor and tell no one about it.”

My father says this to me from the hospital bed he’s been in for three months. At this point he can only move his head. The ability to move the rest of his body is denied to him by something called Guillain Barre Syndrome.

“Anything, Pops.” I say, trying to be as comforting as I can.

For my father, Guillain Barre started when he found he couldn’t reach behind his back with his right arm. Over the next few days he lost the ability to move his right arm at all. Guillain Barre paralyzes you, bit by bit. Then it either starts paralyzing organs and kills you or it simply goes away. There’s no telling which it might do.
“I need you to go to your Uncle Rocky’s garage. Behind his workbench you’ll find a case. It’s one of those vinyl siding cases. Take it out of the garage and destroy it. Do NOT look inside.”

“I’ll do it, Pops.” I manage to say, though my mind is going a mile a minute. What could be in the case? Surely, not the vinyl siding samples he spent most of his life schlepping around to homeowners hoping they’ll choose vinyl siding over painting their house.

“Do it soon. And when you’ve done it, let me know.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Bean.” He says, using a nickname I haven’t heard him say since I was a teenager. “And remember, do not tell anyone. Especially Rose.”

February 8, 1970
Richard,
Has it only been a month? It feels as though you shipped out in another lifetime. I worry every day that I’ll get a call from your mother. But I know you’re resourceful and have faith you will return to me. Part of me wishes we would have run off to Canada together and started a new life away from all this craziness and the war. The whole world seems crazy though. I don’t know that we could ever escape it.
Come home to me safe and sound. Write me when you can. I love you.

• Mary

Uncle Rocky is happy to see me. He gives me a big hug. I know I’m not supposed to tell him about the case, but I can’t come up with an excuse to get into his garage and I’m not going to break in. He has no idea what I’m talking about and is shocked when I come out of the garage with a black case that looks something between a briefcase and a suitcase. It’s the perfect size for a watermelon.

“What’s in it?” Uncle Rocky asks.

“I don’t know. Pops told me not to look.”

“That sounds like your old man.” Rocky laughs.
 
July 16, 1979
Richard,
            I know you’re only gone to the convention in Seattle for a few days, but I missed you. When I called the hotel, the lady who answered was rude and refused to tell me if you were even there because I didn’t have the room number. I had another one of those headaches. This one was worse than the others. I don’t think it’s related to the pregnancy. This is something else. I want you home. Home with me. Home to stay. I want us together as a family raising our child. (I hope it’s a girl.)
            I love you, Richard. When you return, let’s go to Port Townsend again.

• Mary

The case was not locked. It was held shut by two latches I could simply twist and open. But my father said not to look inside. He just wanted it destroyed. And it was important that Rose not see it. Rose is my mother in all the ways that matter. She married my father when I was four. I thought perhaps it was evidence of an affair or maybe just his porn collection.

I sit on my couch staring at the unremarkable case. Destroy it. How can I destroy it if I don’t know what’s in it? What if it’s metal? How do I destroy that? What if I put it in a fire and there’s a gun in there? I unlatch the first latch. My cell phone rings before I get to the second. I somehow know what the woman on the other end of the line is going to say before she says it. Pops is dead.

The next couple weeks are a blur of relatives, friends, and tears. During this time the case sits on my coffee table. One latch undone.

January 27, 1980
Richard,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to tell you like this. You deserve better. So does Bethany. I don’t know what’s me and what’s the brain tumor anymore. But after I lost it last night and slapped her so hard for no good reason, I know I’m not supposed to be a mom. Bethany deserves better than what I’ve become. So do you. They say suicide is selfish, but I want you to know I’m doing it for you. Remember me before this fucking thing ate my brain. Tell our daughter about the good times. Don’t ever let her know about these last few months.
I love you. Always.

• Mary

I sit at my father’s grave site smoking a cigarette with the case he insisted I destroy. I opened it. I feel like a bad daughter for doing so. But I’m here to make things right. The case was full of letters from my Mary, the woman who gave birth to me. From the time he shipped off to Vietnam to right before her suicide. I have no memory of her. I imagine he thought these letters would hurt Rose. It’s clear from the wear on the paper that these letters were read many times. I read them over and over again, conjuring a love between two dead people who are the reason I’m alive. I hesitate before dumping the lighter fluid on the letters in the open case. I take my cigarette and toss it in. The love letters turn to ash in front of my eyes.

END

Let me know what you think of the piece. How was your week?