The Ultimate Workshop

The only thing Marvin McFarland ever wanted was some literary recognition for his work. For years he spent every spare moment away from his job as a bookkeeper studying the writing craft. Since his retirement, he had devoted all his time churning out stories, some of which were published by small press publications but never received any serious recognition.

While Marvin toiled in solitude at the little writing desk in the converted closet he called an “office,” his wife Amelia took care of the household chores. Her round, smiling face with warm brown eyes and a mop of curly silver-blond hair was well known in the community, as she was a part-time greeter at Wal-Mart and a regular participant in church activities, including the bingo parlor.

The couple frequently engaged in a common ritual. As he sat staring at his manuscript with his elbow on the desk and his chin propped in the palm of his hand, the unmistakable aroma of corned beef roused him from his reverie when she entered the room with his favorite meal. Having diverted his attention from his writing with the distinctive flavor of the corned beef sandwich on pumpernickel slathered with tangy mustard, salty chips and dark ale, she prodded in her familiar nasal tone, “I’ll be going to bingo after dinner. You should come with me. It would do you good to get out.”

He looked up from his work with bleary red eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Dear. I just can’t make it tonight. I must resolve this plot and have the manuscript in the mail before the submission deadline.”

“You should give up that fantasy of yours and get a paying job. Wal-Mart has some openings. You would be able to obtain a position there without any trouble.”

“No, thank you. I’ll become a recognized author or die trying!”

One day Marvin received a flyer in the mail announcing a writing workshop to be held locally on a secluded island just off the coast. With a glint in his blue eyes he told Amelia he was going to attend. She responded, “At your age? Look in the mirror. Don’t those wrinkles in your face and that wispy white hair tell you anything? You’re a senior citizen, not some young whippersnapper.”

“Look. The workshop features some of the best writers of our time: Ray
Bradbury, Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King.”

“You’re crazy. You can’t just go gallivanting off to some island.”

“But it’s the chance of a lifetime. The ultimate workshop! I’ve got to go.”

Resigned to the fact that he was going to have his way, Amelia told him, “Well, don’t forget to take your medicine and your sweater. It gets cool in the evenings.”

So Marvin rose early on the appointed morning, packed some clothes, toiletries, his medicine, and a sweater and departed for the workshop to beat all workshops. When he arrived at the departure point, the ferry to the island had just returned from its last trip for the day. He blurted out, “Damn!” as he stomped his foot on the ground. He could see the lodge where the workshop was to be held across the water. It was a long two-story building with a porch and a balcony along the entire front side. Some of the guests could be seen lounging on the balcony, while others strolled in the yard.

Determined to pursue his dream, he looked around to see if there was any other way across the water. A little farther down the shore he saw a canoe with the name of the lodge stenciled on the bow. Since it wasn’t very far across, he decided to take the canoe over. When he started to put the canoe in the water, the people on the opposite shore started waving.He could hear them shouting but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He thought to himself, “What an enthusiastic, friendly group greeting me like that.”

As he started to paddle, an offshore wind kicked up, and dark cumulus clouds appeared on the western horizon. A squall was coming. Marvin paddled like crazy trying to get across before the storm hit. His arms, shoulders and back all ached from the exertion, but he wasn’t making any headway. The tide was ebbing, and the strong current and wind were carrying him out to sea. It was then that he realized the people at the lodge weren’t waving and shouting in greeting, but were trying to warn him. He muttered to himself, “She was right. This was a crazy idea.”

As he passed the breakwater, the sky darkened with the arrival of the storm. The horizon rose and dipped as the canoe bobbed and bounced in the growing waves. Only the white foam of the cresting waves broke the dark slate color of the ocean. The salty spray pelted him incessantly. The canoe rode each swell to the top, then plunged into the trough on the other side, slamming Marvin’s body against the sides and bottom of the canoe as he grappled the thwart beam and held on for dear life. Time and again and again, the waves battered him like a child shakes a rag doll during a temper tantrum, beating it against whatever is handy. The pain was excruciating, and he finally passed out.

When he woke, the sea was calm. The sun was shining, and he could see land in the distance. There was an onshore current that was carrying him toward the shore, where a grand chateau stood on a beautiful lawn. When the canoe reached the shore, he got out and looked around, bewildered by this strange place. The sweet fragrance of begonias whispered a warm welcome as a flagstone path led him across the manicured lawn, through an elegant garden of sculpted shrubbery with statues of horses and lions, and up to the chateau, which was constructed of red brick in the Gothic style with pointed spires and clusters of columns on each side of the main entrance. After climbing the stone steps with ornate ironwork balustrades, Marvin encountered a large mahogany door and pulled the chain to ring the bell. Upon the chiming of the bell, the door opened, and he walked in.

He found himself in a large room with a high ceiling supported by large wooden beams. Colorful Persian rugs covered the floor, and florid velvet draperies cloaked the windows. Across the room was a large oaken desk with elaborate candelabra on each side for lighting. A man sat behind the desk. His large ears stuck out like jug handles, and his lower lip protruded in a sort of pout. The candlelight reflected off his bald pate. He wore a crisp white shirt with a black bow tie and spectacles mounted on his long hooked nose. When he stood, his black cardigan sweater hung loosely from his gaunt frame with his long arms dangling from the sleeves. In a deep, syrupy voice he said, “Welcome, Renowned Friend!”

Marvin’s jaw dropped in amazement for a moment. Then he said, “Y-y-you mean me?”

The man answered, “You have come for the workshop, have you not, Mr. McFarland?”

With the taste of salty brine still on his lips, he responded, “W-w-well, yes, but I was diverted by a storm.”

“Even so, you have arrived at your coveted destination, The Ultimate Workshop. The masters are waiting for you.” With that he pointed to a staircase at the rear of the room.

Marvin walked over to the bulletin board by the staircase and saw the list of instructors: Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway. “But these people are all dead,” he uttered.

“They live in their work, and so shall you.”

When Marvin looked up the staircase and saw Mr. Poe, whose smoldering eyes captured his, he realized his prophecy that he would become a recognized author, even at the price of death, had finally come true. When Mr. Poe lifted his hand and beckoned, Marvin McFarland stepped up and began his ascent to the workshop of his dreams.