The Writer's Path

Dear Bob and Norma,

I hope you are well and enjoying spring flowers on your patio. Thank you for connecting me with Cathy. We emailed before and during my trip to Lancaster for the Pennwriters’ Conference.

I figured I could manage I-79 and the turnpike. Cathy assured me the drive from Harrisburg to Lancaster “is 2 lanes in each direction with a grass median between.” Perfect. Except an arthritis flare-up made me wary of traveling 300 miles alone. I conned my writer-friend Carla into driving me so I could pitch my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press.

At 10 a.m. May 14, Spence dropped me at the I-79 Greenville/Sandy Lake interchange. We dodged puddles and transferred my gear in the rain to Carla’s Honda. I hugged Spence and we girls drove off. As windshield wipers swiped, Carla followed I-79 to the turnpike. Stiff from the drive and cold weather, we stopped at South Somerset service plaza for walking around the food court and eating our packed lunches. We planned to get gas ($4.99 a gallon). Rain changed our minds. Carla played a podcast of her story “The Ghost’s Debt.” I read postcard journals, warning her she’d be in mine for this trip. We gawked at tunnel lights. At Harrisburg, Cathy’s description proved true. We stopped at Rutters for $4.19 gas. Farms faded. Cities grew. Lancaster houses nestled wall to wall with corner mini groceries. Old stone buildings dominated historic sections.

Cathy emailed Saturday asking if we needed anything and inviting us to see baby foxes in her backyard. Alas, the conference was a whirlwind. We couldn’t stop on our way home because Carla needed to get back to prepare for work Monday. But I appreciated Cathy’s kindness.

Love,

Janet

The podcast link for "The Ghost's Debt" is on:

Apple:  https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-ghosts-debt/id1577374904?i=1000766770958

Spotify:  https://open.spotify.com/episode/3dXWWcSHKCHkem6LeM8wRd

Dear Anita,

I hope your health is comfortable and the Tibetans are well.

After an arthritis flare-up in April, I dreaded a solo 300-mile drive to Lancaster for a Pennwriters’ Conference. So I conned my friend Carla into driving me and looked for a place we could stay in the already packed city of Lancaster. After an hour and a half search, I found Rocky Springs B&B—way down on the online scroll.

Built in 1855, the two and a half story brick mansion became a hotel then the manager’s house for Rocky Springs Park—an amusement park—before eventually becoming a B&B. Joe Figari began selling shaved ice at the park. Years later he bought it and moved his family into the house. He often took afternoon naps on an outside bench while visitors walked past him.

I stayed in the Figari Room—up a grand, carpeted stairway. I asked Carla to carry my suitcase up and down for me. I could manage tote bags. The antique bed frame squeaked and needed a metal stake under the center to support the queen sized mattress. The wood floors also squeaked when I walked or practiced yoga on the oriental rug. I used the upholstered chair for putting on my shoes and the rocker for laying out clothes for the next day. When I brushed my teeth at the “antique” sink, I could hear Carla running water in her sink in the Spring Room next door. The bird chorus with a cardinal taking solos woke me up. With the four large windows I caught the sunlight earlier in the morning, like you, than I do at home. Motorcycles racing on the road at night, however, reminded me I dwelt in 2026, not the early 1900s.

Love,

Janet

Dear Bob,

I hope your health’s at a comfy level, and the cats are behaving.

I left my cats and fellas to attend a writing conference in Lancaster, PA. My friend Carla and I stayed at Rocky Springs B&B. I told innkeeper Elaine my middle name was Elaine. She said Elaine was her middle name too. She shared stories of remodeling the 1855 hotel for the B&B—you would’ve understood more than me—and shared photos back to her great-great-great-greats.

When we arrived, my friend Carla discovered she’d forgot her blouses. After dinner, she drove off to buy clothes. I washed our few dishes and placed our organic grapes in the guest refrigerator. Heading upstairs, I didn’t have my room key. I searched and texted Carla in case she had it. Elaine searched too and grabbed it off the sofa by the guest refrigerator. Carla called. “I don’t have your key.” I explained and Carla said, “Elaine won’t want writers staying again.”

But Elaine waved her hand. “That was nothing. My grandson and I were cutting bamboo in the field. I set my cell phone on the truck bumper. We loaded the sticks. I drove across the field, out the driveway, up the hill to my house, across my grass, and through the neighbor’s field to his fire pit area. After we burned the sticks, I drove back across the field to my grass and took my grandson home in an ATV. When I got home again, I remembered the phone. I searched the truck cab then remembered putting the phone on the bumper. I retraced my path on foot. Finally I walked back to the yard, closed my eyes, and prayed. When I opened my eyes, the phone lay face up in the grass in front of me. We can trust the Lord to take care of us.”

Love,

Janet

Dear Robert,

You’re on my mind and in my heart. I hope the procedures you’re undergoing help you feel lots better. I also hope you’re still cooking and enjoying the food you make.

My friend Carla and I recently traveled to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for a writing conference. We stayed at Rocky Springs B&B. Because of my food sensitivities, I’d called the innkeeper Elaine before the trip. We talked for forty-five minutes. She assured me she could accommodate my no soy, no dairy diet. She would also let me heat my frozen homemade chicken pot pies for our Thursday dinner.

We ate our meals off a red table cloth in an elegant dining room of an 1855 mansion. Elaine not only cooked well, she presented the food ready for magazine photos. Friday’s breakfast started with the fruit cup in the photo, and continued with an egg in an almond wrap topped with avocado spread. Yum. I even found room for my traditional oatmeal. Saturday Carla and I enjoyed an oatmeal bake with chicken sausage on the side. Sunday we had an egg bake with a delicious melon salad.

We had planned to enjoy a picnic on the B&B’s deck Saturday evening after we’d walked around the grounds—a former amusement park—but threatening clouds blew in and bugs came out. We retreated to the cozy dining room and gazed out at the flowers so far ahead of those back in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

I imagine the weather for you is more than warm enough to eat outside whenever you want.

Love,

Janet

Dear Bruce and Cindy,

I hope you two are comfy, cozy, and enjoying time at the trolley museum.

When I booked Rocky Springs B&B for the Lancaster Pennwriters’ Conference so I could pitch my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press, I hadn’t realized I’d be staying at the site of an amusement park which had operated from 1855 to 1966. The innkeeper and her family remodeled the brick mansion for the B&B but didn’t have enough money to repair the aging wood buildings of Rocky Springs Park. Saturday, after my emotional pitch day at the conference, my friend Carla and I strolled around the grounds of the former park.

Crumbling cement steps led to grass. Wind had toppled two trees onto a restaurant. Three-and four-foot diameter stumps remained like grave markers. Across the driveway were the popcorn stand, Pennyland, and trolley station. Trolleys came to the park starting 1903. The green and yellow building sported dusty windows and benches. No tracks. No cars. Wildcat roller coaster cars—small benches with no seat belts—and the ticket booth announcing 15 cent rides were displayed under a roof on a cement slab. Why would anyone climb onto those flimsy seats to be hurled over the rails? Yikes. Behind these buildings, fronts of the bath houses hid in trees. People swam in the Conestoga River then Crystal Pool, supplied with water from a cold water spring. The spring still trickles under a lighted gazebo. My favorite was the empty carousel building—filled with cobwebby antique lights, canoes, and tools. The carousel had been moved to Chicago then Dollywood. The ride will open in Lancaster again, but not at Rocky Springs.

Love,

Janet

Dear Diana,

I hope you and Mark are well and that your writing is flowing.

I attended a writing conference in May to meet Lawrence Knorr, CEO of Sunbury Press. I wanted him to publish my collection of nature stories. He also works for an AI company. I attended all three workshops he gave. One involved AI. I wasn’t an AI fan. Writers tell horror stories of AI taking over writing jobs. Spence claims AI writes stories for The Plain Dealer. Barnes and Nobel will sell books written by AI if so labeled. AI stories don’t impress me. I was leery of AI, but if Lawrence would become my editor, I needed to learn his thoughts.

Lawrence helped me see another side. He said AI was the fourth industrial revolution after steam, mechanics, and computer. AI would change writing as much as the printing press had. Writers had to adapt or be replaced. But AI can’t create and isn’t accurate in checking for plagiarism. It helps in research, editing (punctuation, not word choices), summarizing content for marketing, formatting, typesetting, creating art, and reading audio books.

As a panelist in another workshop, Lawrence said social media doesn’t sell books any more. Authors need to get other media such as bloggers, TV, and radio to talk about them so that AI will pick up the coverage. AI has to find the author for sales to happen.

Lawrence’s last workshop was about Pennsylvania Dutch. The German speaking immigrants came before the American revolution for the same, among many reasons, as much later my German great-grandparents came to Pennsylvania—to avoid the draft and devastation of war.

Love,

Janet

Dear Martha,

The last time we emailed, lingering dust—from remodeling for pipe repairs—bedeviled you. I hope the air has cleared. What bedeviled me at the Pennwriters’ Conference in Lancaster, PA this May was pitching my collection of nature stories to Lawrence Knorr, CEO of Sunbury Press.

The first conference workshop I took was on pitching. Misty Simon emphasized that publishers want to make money. “If they don’t think they can sell your book, they won’t take it. Don’t take it personally. Try again.”

A little weepy in the hall after that, I mentioned my dread—of Lawrence rejecting my book—to Deb Sanchez, a writer and small press editor I’d known for years. “Pitch to me at the Road Trip in October,” she said. “I publish short stories.” Having a back up reduced my unease. A bit.

When Spence’s “Good morning, Janet,” came through the phone the next day, I burst into tears. At the B&B breakfast table I practiced my lines on the innkeeper. My voice wobbled like violin vibrato. A sentence and a half in, I panicked. “May I start over? I made a mistake.”

“Sure,” Elaine said, “But let me tell you a story first.” She related the tale of six teenagers hopping out of the Wildcat roller coaster when it paused at the top of its climb—her B&B was a former amusement park. “Now just talk. If you make a mistake keep going. He won’t know.”

At the conference I cried on my friend Christa’s shoulder. Many Pennwriters reassured and calmed me. Their confidence, surviving the 300-mile trip to make the pitch, and the monitor saying, “People with eleven-thirty appointments go in now,” propelled me though the door.

Love,

Janet

Dear Pat,

You’ve asked if I’d heard from Sunbury Press about my collection of nature stories. I hadn’t. Determined, I attended the Pennwriters’ Conference in Lancaster, PA so I could pitch to Lawrence Knorr in person. Alas, pitch day I freaked—reminiscent of Ivy reacting to neighbors.

But, when the monitor called, “Eleven-thirty group,” I forced my way to Lawrence’s table.

He gave me a friendly smile. “You must be for me. You’re ‘Saturday Keynote Luncheon.’”

My name tag had flipped. The meal tickets showed. I laughed releasing tension. I offered two icebreakers. “You’re the reason I conned my friend into driving me three hundred miles . . .” and “I wanted to ask when you about attended Wilson College because it was all girls when I did, but I need to tell you about my book before time runs out.” I launched into my talk. Almost calm.

He took notes, looked up face glowing, and stopped me with a question before I got a third of the way through. “Do you know Ben Moyer? He writes for us and Northern Appalachia Review. Your stories fit our Catamount Press imprint.”

“I submitted to Catamount Press last October and have been waiting to hear.”

He jotted more notes. “We’ve been busy. I’ll look up your submission when I get home. Submit one of your stories to the review.” And he explained he went to Wilson when men attended at night. Since his wife taught there, he was the only male in women’s day classes.

The night the conference ended, Lawrence sent an acceptance email offering me a contract if I was still interested. I emailed back, “Yes. Definitely.” I’m waiting for the contract to arrive.

Love,

Janet

Dear Marlee,

I trust you are out gardening and enjoying the spring flowers.

While in Lancaster, PA for the Pennwriters’ Conference, I enjoyed that flowers were weeks ahead of those at Wells Wood. I’d talked a younger friend into attending so she could drive me the 300 miles because I wanted to pitch my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press. And he wants my book! So when the conference ended at noon Sunday, Carla and I hopped into her Honda and headed to the Pennsylvania turnpike. I nibbled walnuts and dried cherries to tide me over for a late lunch. We compared workshops and chuckled over conflicting advice such as “only use said” versus “vary your speech tags like Jane Austen.”

We stopped at Sideling Hill service plaza. Spiders and ants shared our picnic table. The plaza had space for a farmer’s market and directions to the TOPP trail through woods and abandoned tunnels. Both intrigued us, but we stretched out legs, filled out bellies, and moved on. We planned another break at the rest stop advertised between exit 57 and 48. As we approached, I grew leery. The landscape was urban not rural. But the stop came—on the eastbound side, not westbound. We continued to an obliging Sunoco station at the Cranberry exit.

I called Spence and arranged to meet him at the Greenville/Sandy Lake interchange on I-79 at 6 p.m. Carla drove north. At 6:00 Spence called. “A motorcycle hit the Maverick.” In the background the truck’s horn beeped as if a burglar alarm had been activated. “We’re both okay,” he said, “but the drive train locked up. I’ll call for a tow.” Spence’s Maverick saga continues.

Love,

Janet