By Janice D. Krantz The gift of the marathon is our growth, not just as writers, but as participants in the human experience. It’s a growth that can be measured not by the number of pieces published or journals filled, but by that internal, immeasurable sense of satisfaction, the level of which can be determined solely by the individual. It’s found in the shared experience of the other: allowing ourselves to offer suggestions and being accepted, taking the risk and knowing

By Melanie Plesh I’m at the window of Molly’s at the Market, somewhere in the flux between outside and inside. Behind me is the clatter of people letting their guards down. Angels and alley cats are working things out at the bar. Two men are arguing about Stonehenge and lighting their cigarettes with Zippos. I hear the hinges creak and the lids slap shut. I probably only think I smell the lighter fluid. I settle down and let them and their conversation and their Zippos melt

By Margaret Westmoreland The New Orleans Writing Marathon is professional development for my soul. Yes, it's helped me become more adventurous as a writer, and yes, it's helped me be a better teacher of writing, but the greatest gift the New Orleans Writing Marathon has given me is a deeper appreciation for the city itself. I was born in New Orleans, but my parents moved about 40 miles north of the city when I was two. New Orleans - referred to as just "The City" in my fami

By Michelle Hebert Russo Just last week, I had lunch with two of my writing project friends whom I don’t see often enough. Life happens, teaching happens, kids happen, all while time and distance seem to consume the months between our get-togethers. We sat and talked with so much candor and genuineness that it seemed there was never a distance or duration of time between us, and that, I know, isn't because we have so much in common or have spent childhoods together; it’s beca

By Annabel Servat Scene: At Harry’s Corner Bar in the French Quarter; a brindle greyhound and her owner come in; both sit on barstools as the man orders. She has a white bib, natural ears, and an engaging smile in her golden brown eyes. She is draped over the stool, leaning on her elbows to get a better view. Dear City, I’m here with my poppa and a big group at the window table is talking about how polite the people of New Orleans are, how generous. From their pleasantly

By Kim Stafford She was slumped against the wall on Decatur Street, close to midnight, crying. At her feet was a shrine—candles burning, flowers scattered, coins strewn, notes scrawled on scraps of paper, jack of diamonds, and a record-album cover showing a bullet plowing through an apple. We were three friends on the New Orleans Writing Marathon, winding down from a day of scribbling in cafes and bars, at park benches, or anyplace we could hunch over our notebooks. And we st

By Marley Stuart I used to get nervous when a writing marathon was approaching. What would I write about? What if nothing came? What if all my friends began scribbling away, and I was left staring at the blank page? Kim Stafford writes in The Muses Among Us about the writer as listener—to the voices outside and the voices inside. On a New Orleans Writing Marathon this may take the form of overhearing a conversation in Croissant D’Or, or observing some interesting character on

By Susan Martens Dear New Orleans, I can’t thank you enough for your warm hospitality this week, especially for such a motley crew as a bunch of writers. But, then again, you’ve always been kind to writers. Yesterday I had my beautiful writing marathon moment with Jeanne and Stephanie and Dee and Pacian and Pete in Algiers. But I forgot to thank you properly for my perfect New Orleans moment, which came to me as I sat with George and company at Harry’s Bar on Wednesday. G

RIchard Louth and Melanie Plesh writing in Molly's window. By Richard Louth The unofficial home of the New Orleans Writing Marathon is an Irish pub called Molly’s at the Market, and during a typical marathon 20-30 writers can be found drifting in and out over the course of a day, writing and sharing their work around small tables or in Molly’s famous window (an open ledge separating the bar from the sidewalk, wide enough to hold a beer and a notebook). To celebrate the New Ye

By Tracy Ferrington Last week a friend said to me, “You have some down time now. I bet you’re getting in some writing.” “No,” I said. “But I cleaned my whole house top to bottom and re-organized all the files on my computer.” That was more appealing than facing an empty Word document. When I’ve been away from my writing, a little army seems to form around it, keeping me outside the gate. While I don’t have a cure for those doubts, fears, and judgmental voices that hang ou