The writer in me requires three things in order to make art: a good meal, a comfortable workspace, and stimulating interactions. Food fuels me. And if I am content I am compelled to sit at my computer and sing with the keyboard until I lose my voice for the evening. In a private room I can undress my memory and imagination—I can lay bare the sorrows and other emotions that texture the interior lives of my fictional characters, and that color the similes of my poetry. Keeping company with other artists triggers my appetite for creativity. I hear a story and my mind comes alive with possibility. I want to earn my place among the distinguished talent that recognizes me as one of their kind. I was blessed with all three ingredients for the duration of my stay at Civitella. What other choice did I have but to write page after page (200 if you really want to know!) in order to honor that nurturing gift?