The Light Dancing On Water

For the last four days, while rocking on the back porch of the lodge, I’ve watched the light as it danced on the water. Late each afternoon, in a flash of orange and yellow, the sun dipped below the horizon. Beneath the clear summer sky, the water shimmered like diamonds as the moon rose.

It was the 31st annual Southeastern Writers Conference in St. Simons, and I should have been at peace. But I wasn’t. I was alone, and didn’t even know why I came.

On the first day, I met a lady who only wore flip flops. “It’s like going barefoot, only louder,” she proclaimed.

I didn’t argue with her. “They look fashionable enough,” I replied, “but they have one major drawback. You can’t sneak up on anybody. You should wear sneakers instead. That is ... if you have any sneaking to do later tonight.”

She laughed, smiled with her eyes, and lightly touched my shoulder as she turned and walked away, her fashionable flip-flops echoing down the hallway behind her. I bet she has a story to tell. I bet she knows why she came.

On the second day, I saw a man wearing a straw hat. He stood under a row of 400-year-old live oaks with huge limbs that formed a canopy across the road leading to the lodge. Bridal veils of Spanish moss hung from every limb, their sea foam hue contrasting sharply against the backdrop of dark green leaves. “My Daddy gave me a straw hat to wear when I was only 7,” he said. “Been wearing one ever since.”

I didn’t ask, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the same one.

On the third day, I met a mom from North Carolina. I listened as she told the instructors about the baby she’d been working on for the last year. “I don’t really want to give it to an agent, but I think it’s time. I’ve done all I can do.”

I looked for her baby, but all she did was give a manuscript to the instructor. And even though she talked about her baby quite a bit during that day, I never saw it. I think that lady really gave her baby away.

On the fourth day of the writer’s conference, I had dinner with a real live Literary Agent. It seems they’re not just mythical creatures after all. She said, “There are lots of people here who would be happy to help you with your writing ... even after the conference. All you have to do is ask.”

She listened to my stories about the kids on Flamingo Street, The Wife and The Boy, and gave me some good advice. After dessert, she told me how to contact her when I was ready to submit my work.

“I’m a long way away from being ready,” I said.

She just smiled, “Keep writing,” she said, “You’ll be there one day.”

On the last day of the conference, I said goodbye to all the people I had met. The flip-flop lady was happy. She had bought a new pink pair with colored stones embedded in the straps. The man with the straw hat told me he did take it off when he slept. And come to find out, that lady really didn’t give up her baby after all. She showed me pictures of her kid, still safe and back in North Carolina with her husband of 18 years. The Agent signed a copy of her book that I’d bought and wished me luck. And one instructor even said, “You have talent. You should use it.”

I replied, “I will. As soon as I figure out what it is.”

So again tonight, I’ll rock silently… but this time, I’ll be on my back porch while waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon. The Wife is out of town on business and won’t be home till tomorrow. The Boy’s upstairs and, like most teenagers, only comes down for food.

But it’s okay. I know now that I’m not alone. I’ve been to St. Simons and watched as the light danced on the water.