I’m writing this post from the Rabbit Room North Wind Manor porch of lore. If you’ve been there, you know where I’m talking about—the wraparound one with copious rocking chairs and a fireplace facing a spacious backyard with fairy lanterns hanging from the trees.
If you told someone what the Rabbit Room is and then asked them to describe the kind of place where a group that promotes creativity among Christian artists might be headquartered, they’d probably draw something like it.
I’ve been in Nashville for three days now after coming into town to promote Why I Dyed My Hair Purple at a special author event at Franklin’s Landmark Booksellers. From there, I went on to the twice-yearly writer’s retreat sponsored by The Habit Membership. I typically make this trip in June, but am taking in the winter edition of the event because it coincides with the release of this book.
It’s different being here in February. Colder, though not as cold as Northeast Ohio, which my husband tells me has been hit with an ice storm. There is less sunshine, and the trees are leafless and dead. There is a mysterious, overgrown outbuilding behind the barn that I’ve never noticed before, and enormous deer wander through the woods.
The outside of the Manor is different from visiting in the summer, but the inside isn’t. Almost as many people are here attending this retreat. We’ve done craft classes and critique groups and prayed and enjoyed delicious food. We’ve caught up on each others’ lives and taken selfies.
Most blessedly, we’ve gotten to hear each other share our work, undoubtedly the highlight of these weekends for me.
Except this year, our annual story time and poetry tea got me thinking more about the passage of time. How much has happened since I first met these people, not just for me personally, but for our work.
I joined The Habit in the midst of the pandemic, back in the spring of the illustrious, never-to-be-forgotten-though-we-wish-it-could-be year of 2020. I was still working in marketing and was currently laid off when I saw a Facebook ad for an online writing class about Flannery O’Connor.
That was a no-brainer. It was probably one of the only times in my life that Facebook has actually helped me out.
I signed up for the class and was pleasantly surprised when I realized that Jonathan Rogers, the instructor, was teaching O’Connor’s work through a lens of faith. Although I knew she was a Christian (her work had played a significant role in my own conversion), I’d never studied it from that angle.
To top it off, the discussion both in class and in the course forum was friendly and meaningful. It had been a long time—since my MFA program ten years before—that I’d been in a writing class, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
Moreover, I was delighted to learn that the fun didn’t have to end after the six-week class. Jonathan announced that anyone who took the course could apply their tuition to a membership in The Habit, its umbrella writing community. I liked it so much that I decided to stay.
A lot has happened since then. For me, the Habit Membership became the gateway to the Rabbit Room and to a new, Christ-centered way of seeing my creative vocation.
Meanwhile, I felt inspired to start writing short essays working out my complex emotions about spirituality, art, mental health, tough church experiences, family, and assorted topics.
And you know the rest. Those pieces were the beginning of my new book, Why I Dyed My Hair Purple and Other Unorthodox Stories. This month marks three years since my friend Leslie Bustard, who has since departed to be with Christ, told me that the essays I’d begun to accumulate could end up being a book.
When you’re working on an extended project as a writer, time has a way of getting lost. You measure it in drafts of new pieces, in notes from critique partners and editors, in online classes where you and your writing friends learn together and discuss your work on Zoom, at conferences, and on phone calls.
You exchange manuscripts of stories and books. You celebrate each other’s big wins. You thank God upon every remembrance of them and for the hope that is in them.
But you don’t really think about how much time has gone by until suddenly, you’re reminded of it.
As I listened to my friends share their work, two things struck me. The first is that this spring, it will be five years since I signed up for that Flannery O’Connor class. (That also, of course, means it’s been five years since the pandemic began, but let’s not dwell on that.)
I’ve been a member of The Habit and Rabbit Room for half a decade.
I’ve spent two more years in The Habit than I did in my MFA program, or in college, for that matter. Until this week, I never stopped long enough in the process of my own writing and ministry to realize this.
But being in this special place at a different time of year, in the dead of winter instead of the rollout of summer, made me see it.
We tend to think of time in terms of big things like this—birthdays and anniversaries and major life moves and book releases. But rarely do we take note of the small things that have accumulated beneath the surface of the big things.
Which brings me to the second realization.
My friends’ work has gotten really, really good. Their creative growth is astonishing. I know this because I know their characters, the kinds of stories they write, and their hearts for creativity.
I think I knew this intellectually, but small measures of growth can’t always be easily seen on a Zoom screen or a website. When you get in a room with the people who are special to you and hear them read their work in person, in their own voices, you realize just how talented they are.
In a way, it’s fitting. I found my creative family in a time of darkness and quickly discovered that there was a pocket of light ready to welcome me. The light isn’t just still there. It’s multiplied.
I came to Nashville at this off-season time for the purpose of celebrating my book release with friends. But I feel like I’m celebrating something far more significant—the presence of people who are dear to me and the words they’ve seen fit to share. The growth of characters and the expansion of storylines. The multiplication of poems and the courage to share deep losses.
Community is such a gift. Making things is hard. I’m so glad that God has never intended for us to do it alone.
So, what about you? What creative communities are you grateful for? Share them in the comments.
Share this post