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Dreams do come true! by Lea Anne Brandon
“I am the host of the Pat Conroy Writer’s Residency,” wrote Mary Ellen Thompson, a name then-unfamiliar to me but one which would soon be etched indelibly in my heart.
Dreams do come true! by Lea Anne Brandon
Something I had secretly dared to wish for, fervently pray for and elaborately imagine in my heart and soul was recently transformed into reality, for me, alongside the magical marshlands of Beaufort, South Carolina. And, I am eternally indebted and forever changed by that - gift.
It was a cold, blustery day in early January. Everything outside my windows was gray and rainy and bone-chilling. Ignoring the Christmas tree and mantle decorations that sorely needed taking down, boxing up and moving into storage for another year, I picked up my phone to scroll. Clicking on my emails, I opened an unexpected message.
“I am the host of the Pat Conroy Writer’s Residency,” wrote Mary Ellen Thompson, a name then-unfamiliar to me but one which would soon be etched indelibly in my heart. “I would like to offer you the opportunity to come to Marsh Song (Cottage) to snug in and write...It would be my pleasure to have you here so I hope you will accept my invitation.”
I couldn’t catch my breath before I typed an immediate “Yes and thank you” followed by an inordinate number of exclamation points.
Mary Ellen’s response came back with equal rapidity.
“I am so glad. I think you will find this property to be very inspirational.”
Truer words have not been penned. To say that the awe inspiring marshlands and towering centuries-old oak trees draped with wispy Spanish Moss surrounding Mary Ellen’s eclectic and colorful Marsh Song Cottage are muse worthy is an understatement. Add a surreal backdrop of vivid orange, hot pink and lavender hued sunrises and sunsets. Dot the landscape with a family of inquisitive white-tailed deer and a medley of marsh birds filling the pristine sky. Animate the masterpiece with the mesmerizing rise and fall of the tidewaters. You are only beginning to paint the picture that awaited my arrival.
It is perfection. But it is much more.
Something about Beaufort and its surrounding islands envelopes a mere mortal visitor with its soft, comforting embrace. All is well here, it whispers. You are safe here. You can breathe—deeply and easily—here. You are home here.
When I first turned off the paved highway and onto the crunchy shell-covered driveway of Oaks Plantation on St. Helena Island, I knew immediately I was about to be changed. For the good. My white Sante Fe and I slowly crawled underneath the oak canopy and followed Mary Ellen’s texted directions to find my temporary cloister. She probably wouldn’t be home when I arrived, she’d said. The cottage door would be unlocked. Come in through the screen porch. Make yourself at home, she said.
And so I did.
After lugging far too many suitcases and bags into my bedroom and stocking my fridge with bottles of green tea and Atkins shakes, I sat down at the dining table which would be my writing desk for the next 10 days. I neatly stacked my reference books to my left; plugged in my laptop; arranged a row of pencils, pens and highlighters; and place a notebook containing the first chapters of my long, long, long-delayed manuscript to my right.
I stared through the wall of windows and glass doors into The Prince of Tides’ beloved marshland. Two deer leapt and jumped with abandon. A giant egret landing on the dock railing.
I began to cry. Tears washed my face and dropped onto the keyboard. I couldn’t stop.
I was there! Where I had hoped I would one day be. It had come true. This once-in-a-lifetime, unmerited opportunity to do exactly what I had—for so very long—said I wanted to do. Write. Put words onto the page. Finish my book. I had no excuses. No distractions.
Bliss.
As my writing mentor River Jordan had chastised me to do for years, I finally put my butt in my chair and I kept it there. For hours and hours and hours each day. Whenever I struggled to paint the picture I wanted to share, I simply moved my focus from the screen to the marsh. The tide came in and the grasses disappeared. The tide went out and the pluff mud began to sing.
And the right words returned.
In the evenings, my wonderful hostess and new best friend Mary Ellen and I would meet on her screened porch, wrap ourselves in sweaters and quilts and watch the sun watercolor the sky as it set. Warmed by a glass of wine or bourbon or refreshed by my favorite Dr. Pepper Zero, we’d talk through my day’s work. Discuss the words. Ponder the stories behind the stories. She critiqued. She encouraged. She pushed me to go deeper.
Every morning, I would roll over to welcome the rising sun and its explosion of pastel watercolors splashing just outside my bedroom window. I would snuggle between crisp, pink linen sheets and draw warmth from a lighter than-air down comforter. Words that I would soon type into phrases, sentences, paragraphs and chapters danced unrestrained in my head. (I call that process my “book thinking.” My husband John labels it as my excuse for staying in bed too long.)
Slipping into a pair of leggings or pajama pants and an Ole Miss t-shirt, I would journey the dozen or so steps from my cocoon to my writing chair. Open the laptop. Perch fingers onto the keyboard.And let the stories flow.
It was a comfortable and comforting routine.
As I would complete one chapter after another, I would text Mary Ellen to let her know pages were being emailed to her for review. When she had digested my latest offering, I would then hear a slight knock on the screen door and see her head full of beautiful orange curls peeking in. She’d curl up on the overstuffed cottage’s sofa, pile pillows around her and we’d talk words. How to say it better. Ways to help the reader understand. Polishing. Reworking.
It was a comfortable and comforting routine.
Mid-afternoon on Day 9, my tears began to rain again. I blinked through the waterfall at a blank screen. The cursor blinked back at me. I had no more words. There wasn’t anything left to say.
I was done.
My fingers were shaking, not from my Parkinson’s, but from sheer relief.
I was done.
I typed “The End.” Took at picture of the screen. Posted it on Facebook with a declaratory “Hallelujah” and closed my laptop. Outside my window, the deer had come to celebrate with me. Four of them were jumping and chasing each other across the yard. The one with the extra-long ears, the one who had greeted me on my first day at Marsh Song, had walked up to the porch steps and was staring back at me.
“I’m done,” I told her. “I’m done!”
While Beaufort is unequaled in its natural beauty, I have decided its uniqueness lies in the people who call this slice of heaven their home. During my writer’s residency, I was embraced not only by the sheer physical glory of the place and its storied architecture and history but also by the dozens of strangers-turned-friends who welcomed me and supported me and encouraged me so generously and undeservedly. From the delightful “oh-so-South-Carolina-hospitable" cocktail party graciously hosted by Mary Ellen and the Cheese Biscuit Queen Mary Martha Greene at their friend Mike McFee’s beautiful home to the private tour of the Pat Conroy Literary Center by the beloved writer’s sister Kathy Conroy, I was made to feel special. Beaufort has a literary community equal to any place I’ve known, including my cherished Oxford. My sweet friend and constant encourager Bren McClain both started and ended my visit with her positivity and heartfelt support. Cassandra King, one of my favorite storytellers and Pat’s sweetheart, spent time asking about my book and encouraging me on my way. Pat’s agent Marly Rusoff came to the party as well, taking me aback with her interest in my project and what we hope to accomplish with its publication. Other names and faces—including the amazing Pat Denkler and John Warley—still fill my heart to overflowing. The generous support and encouragement from all of Beaufort’s sweet souls built within me a confidence to go the distance.
Mary Ellen woke with the sunrise the morning I was to leave. That was a true sacrifice, given that neither she nor I stir quickly after a night’s sleep. My car was loaded. I was taking home with me more than 34,000 new words on the page. The book, or at least a draft of it, was done. We stood on the edge of the marsh, struggling to find the words.
Words.
There were none I could find to describe what I’d been given. By her. By Beaufort.
No words.
Except, thank you.
Lea Anne Brandon is a recently retired, award-winning journalist who covered education reform, state and local government and civil rights for Mississippi’s flagship newspaper The Clarion-Ledger during its investigative heyday. Her upcoming book “Our Truths Be Told,” penned with co-author and fellow journalist Charlotte Graham, is a personal, secret-shattering reveal of shared experiences viewed from divergent perspectives of growing up black and white in the epicenter of the violent civil rights movement in their racially divided hometown of Laurel, Mississippi.
