Learning to Write with My Heart

I always feel so utterly American when I'm in Italy. As in not stylish, not seriously stunning and unable to make music whenever I speak.

So, there I sat at my rickety little table in the warm-stoned square outside the bar, doing my best to not ruin the scenery. Teresa, my workshop coach and cheerleader, had told us to observe and write. I tried to focus.

I sighed. I rearranged myself on the hard metal chair. I looked around at people going by. Then, I went right back to stalling, tapping my pen against the little notebook in front of me; clearly it was losing patience with me. I closed my eyes against the accusing white glare of its empty pages. And I reminded myself of the reason I had joined Teresa Cutler's Scrivere in Italia workshop in the first place.

Many months before, I sat in much the same frame of mind, but in my condo in San Diego. Instead of a notebook, my computer screen waited expectantly. I write copy for a living, so maybe it's no great mystery why I was finding it hard to switch gears and write fiction. Instead of being given parameters for a project, I had to pull stories out of thin air. Apparently, my stories didn't want to materialize.

I was all in knots. You won't be good enough, I told myself. Why do you even try?

I decided a writer's workshop might dislodge this dry clump of words inside me. I started poking around on the Internet. It had to be in a location I'd enjoy so I'd feel transported into a different me than the one I was dealing with. How about Italy, I considered. Italy has always felt like home. A really good friend, without fail kind, generous and forgiving.

There seemed to be many options, some more intimidating than others. Given my state of mind, I knew I'd best stay away from anything too high-pressure. And, really, why go to Italy and spend all day having to produce? Seemed so un-Italian.

I discovered Scrivere in Italia and felt like it would be the best fit. Happily, the program, and Teresa, turned out to be just what I needed. It was a balance between learning and living—and if Italy can't jog stories out of you, nothing will.

Paolo Nascimbeni was our Italian host and we began and ended each day at his 18th century home, just down the street from our pretty sunset-pink hotel, Zodiaco. The cobblestone road that fronts Paolo's home and the hotel is Via Francigena, which has borne travelers on religious pilgrimage to Rome for centuries. Couldn't help but see the metaphor for my little pilgrimage as I made my way to and from Paolo's each day.

And so our day would begin. The beauty of Scrivere is, writing melds with life. We didn't sit in a room, listen to a lecture and then pull out our laptops and write. Instead, we went out and saw, tasted and felt life. Stories were planted every day, to be cultivated later. We got to do wonderful, unexpected things, adventures you wouldn't have as a tourist.

Lessons were intimate and real. They came over breakfast, like the one I shared with a guest author who gave me feedback about something I wrote for an exercise. They happened in the evening, snug on the couch in Paolo's living room, talking about our day and then weaving our thoughts into some private-time writing before dinner. Teresa nurtured each of us according to our needs.

My favorite "classes" were give-and-take discussions over a glass of fragrant Italian red, pieces of crusty pane and a ridiculously delicious meal. Or out and about on one of our daily adventures. There we were one day on Lake Bolsena, the engine cut and us bobbing in place, little waves lapping lazy at our boat. Close your eyes, Teresa said. What do you hear? What do you smell?

One day we sat and talked with an expatriate American author on her palazzo terrace that overlooked the Vetralla countryside, beautiful and dressed for fall. An Italian photographer inspired us to take artful photos in ancient Rome. Later in the week, he had us over to his apartment in Porchiano, another rustic hill town. He made a tasty meal and dined with some of his friends, one an acclaimed Italian novelist and cultural journalist. Think The Moveable Feast.

But, right there, right then, I was sitting at a rickety table outside a bar in the little warm-stoned square across from Paolo's house. I pulled my mind back into the sunny morning and began to really look at people.

I smiled to myself as old world met new in the little old man wearing a bright blue track suit and Nike's; he leaned into his walk, taking another brisk-as-he-could turn around the square. Then there was the dapper signore in a shiny well-worn suit, alone with his cappuccino and languid cigarette. And the olive-skinned young shop keeper across the way, talking melodiously with a handsome patron and flirting as only Italians can.

Stories sprang up all around me and I began to write. How could I not?

That's what Scrivere did for me. It loosened up my creative writing muscle. I learned to feel before I write. Back in San Diego, my computer screen still glares at me with disappointment sometimes. But now I know it'll be okay, it's only temporary. I know now I'm good enough. I know that, eventually, I'll get out of my head and into my heart, where the best writing always begins.