STEVE GUNN AND THE BLACK TWIG PICKERS: Trailways Ramble
Have I ever told y’all about my girl gang? My girl gang is a six-piece group of wholly gifted, wholly diverse writers. We’re all women, yeah, but that part doesn’t seem important—save the alliterative possibilities. Anyway, we’ve been meeting monthly for a good minute now and this afternoon, for April’s meeting, we’re fucking off to the woods in North Georgia. We’re renting a cabin (with wifi, we’re not idiots) and a hot tub (clearly) and checking out as soon as we check in.
I have deadlines for tangible, real, assigned pieces, yes—but this trip isn’t about those (although clearly I will deal with those today and Sunday night because I have to). This trip is going to be a dope opportunity to bounce ideas off this group of writers I admire and respect greatly. It’s about teasing out the delicate shellac shell of a thing and possibly filling it up and casing it to become something.
I proposed a social media diet to the group for the retreat. It was not met with a lot of warmth, so I might be going in solo on it. I feel like that aspect is important to preserve but easy to ignore—the whole being present thing. Not to get all zen and annoying on y’all, but I feel like so often trips like these secretly exist as a really super opportunity to boost your Instagram feed’s legitimacy, a chance to FOMO the fuck outta people scrolling back home or in line at the bank or something else mundane. And to indulge in these little impulses is kind of missing the point completely? Right? I don’t know. We’ll see how that part goes.
We leave just after my Bustle shift ends. MV will come grab me, I’ll squeeze Kevin adieu for a weekend with Fun Uncle Jim, and we’ll be off with fresh notebooks and some pinot noir I recently jarred up. I’m stoked.