This past weekend I had the privilege of attending a writing workshop led by Rahla Xenopoulos and Maire Fisher, both of whom are authors who paint sentences into beautiful works of art that are framed in published books. It’s the dream of writers that have just begun to explore how it feels to have the liquid colour on our hands, taking tentative strokes with our hearts onto the page, to one day see our own work displayed in the gallery of a bookshop.
Rahla’s barn in Stanford would be the studio for 16 writers, some already published, others writing for the first time. I was kind of inbetween, searching for my voice among my piles and piles of unfinished books, scattered poems and abandoned ideas. I knew I would write my own story somehow, but I had no idea how to piece it together. Through a flood of heart mining exercises at the workshop, I managed to discover my buried sapphires.