Shanon Adame

I did not expect to attend a writers’ conference and not write.

On the contrary, I saw myself leaving the conference, weaving my way through the woods with my best-seller idea, a stack of prompts turned genius book beginnings, thinking I was a brilliant and inspired writer.

Instead, I felt tested. Chewed up. Spat out. Humbled. In the best ways possible. And the only writing I came away with was a daily journal I kept.

The conference was the inaugural Tremont Writers Conference, organized and hosted by the Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont. Tremont’s mission is to, ” to deliver experiential learning for youth, educators, and adults through programs that promote self-discovery, critical thinking, and effective teaching and leadership.” We had four days in the Smoky Mountain National Park to workshop, hike, write, read, and listen to craft talks….basically my dream life.

I was in the fiction cohort led by author, Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle, 1^st published author from the Eastern Band of Cherokees. My group was ridiculously talented, and I found myself feeling like I had brought a personal diary to a group of novelists. I battled insecurities and imposter syndrome each day I was there.

One of our assignments was to find a “secret spot”, and to visit it each morning and write about it. I am in a movement phase of my life and sitting still is the literal last thing I want to do, so instead, I chose to walk – each day to a new location. I did not write about my walks, I only moved and experienced. Some days I found myself down by the river, watching Kingfishers glide just above the surface of the water, other days, I hiked up into the orange and red world of the woods.

During mealtimes, I listened to people talk about their projects, book releases, etc. and really struggled with feeling like I belonged. I hadn’t even had one interesting idea since arriving. On the 3^rd day, during our open mic night, I listened to fellow writers read from excerpts they penned while at the conference and thought I must be the least creative person in the whole world…maybe even the whole universe.

But then, a week after the conference, something really lovely happened. All of that experiencing and listening and observing got processed into my sometimes too analytical mind, and I started to get excited about ideas I had. I started to think seriously about what kind of writer I wanted to be and what I want to write about.

I started writing. I started applying for opportunities that I normally would have felt under-qualified to write for. I reanimated my love for writing and it’s all because I went to a writers’ conference and didn’t write.

Sometimes, inaction can lead to action. Sometimes, being quiet leads to words.