a festival of words in the mountains.

I spent Memorial Day weekend in the mountains with other writers.

Back in April, I saw an ad on Instagram for the Mountain Words Festival in Crested Butte, CO. It was one of those ads that immediately caught my attention and sent me down a rabbit hole simply because I love Crested Butte.

An excuse to go spend a weekend there? And maybe get some creative sparks? It was an easy yes.

I told Adam and he said hell yes before I even finished my sentence. An excuse to go fishing for two days straight while you hangout with writers? And I can maybe get some good photos? It was an easy yes for him, too. (Gosh, I’m lucky.)

I bought my ticket and started building my schedule—picking and choosing out sessions, readings, and workshops that sounded exciting. They had memoir sessions, craft writing workshops, publishing panels, and conversations with authors that I both recognized (hello, Karen Russell!) and those I didn’t, but already started to love from my extended Google searches.

I was excited. Eager, even. I anticipated May 23 like the first day of Kindergarten.

Will I like my teacher? Will I make friends? Will I get along with my classmates?

This is the first writing conference that I’ve gone to. I’ve been to readings, workshops, and events, sure, but I haven’t attended a full, multi-day conference before. And I certainly haven’t attended one by myself.

Adam and I woke up at 5 a.m. and started the three hour drive from Grand Junction to Crested Butte with the sunrise. My first session was at 9 a.m.

Grogginess was all I felt for the first two hours. But as we rounded closer to Gunnison and our arrival was within the hour, I started to feel full-body jitters.

Adam laughed at me as I shared my ramblings. “I feel like I’m dropping you off for your first day of school.” He paused, looking at me. “You know that when I come back for you later, you’re going to say you had the best time ever. You’re going to want to tell me all about your new friends and the things you learned.”

I rolled my eyes. I’m not five.

Only, I might as well be. Because that’s exactly what I did.

As I walked out of the Center for the Arts later that afternoon and hopped into the car, I started laughing and crying as he said, “Tell me all about your first day!”

I was crying because I felt home. I felt at home in my skin, I felt at home in that conference, I felt at home in my writing.

I was crying because I was—am—so genuinely proud of myself.

I put writing and my passions on the back-burner for so long. I worked myself into the ground doing things for other people. I am so proud that I’ve allowed myself to intentionally bring writing into my life again. That I’ve intentionally tried to push myself out of my comfort zone. That I’ve signed up for things that scare me. That I’ve tried to find communities that align with my values.

I’ve done so much in the last year. I’ve let myself grow and expand—even when uncomfortable—in so many ways. I’ve taken time to ask myself, what do you want?, and listened.

Going to this festival was a gift I gave myself. Because not only was I proud of myself, but I also just felt seen.

I expected two and a half days of learning. What I didn’t expect was to wholeheartedly feel like I belonged there. The aspect of community was prevalent in every corner of the festival.

In a discussion, Shelley Read and David Wroblewski spoke about how writing is an act of being in conversation, despite how solitary it can feel. It's about being in conversation with all versions of yourself, with readers, with other writers, with the world around you.

And that's what the entire weekend felt like: Being in conversation. Being in community. Being in connection.

I spoke to strangers. Sometimes, I just sat in silence and soaked in the conversations happening around me. I shared out loud in a workshop. I went up to speakers and authors and just talked to them. I remembered people’s names and greeted them as so. And I bought lots and lots of books.

I was just fully and completely present. And I let myself just be Courtney.

I let myself absorb the many layers and complexities of speculation in nonfiction from Teow Lim Goh.

I listened, stunned, as Deborah Jackson Taffa dropped a million little nuggets of wisdom in her workshop, “The Act of Self-Confrontation.”

I had a breakthrough in my story during a generative memoir workshop with Hillary Leftwich called “Uncovering the Unspoken” during which I uncovered my memoir’s unspoken theme.

I learned how to write sentences that feel like drowning instead of sentences that just describe drowning with Steven Dunn.

And so, so many more.

It’s hard to explain this feeling I’m walking away with. I feel part of an ecosystem that I’ve been unknowingly searching for. I’ve been looking for my Colorado writing people. And I may have found them.

I feel like little flakes of creativity were jostled free inside of me. I feel them falling down around me like snowflakes.

I’m so grateful for that Instagram ad. And I can’t wait for next year.

xx

Court