September 2006

Greetings from Inkberry.

First, some announcements: Inkberry’s fall calendar is now online, and we’re offering some great stuff this season. Online, we’re offering a terrific workshop called “Writing Short Fiction,” taught by Joanna Luloff — read about that here. At Inkberry, we’ll present the return of our popular drop-in workshop Thursday Night Critique, now led by facilitator Bill Belcher; we’re also offering a master class in writing mysteries, taught by visiting writer Beth Saulnier. (Read all about our in-person offerings here.) Our slate of readings includes several WordPlay events at Papyri Books, and a speculative fiction odyssey featuring masters of the form Paul Park and Naomi Novik in November. You can sign up for any of our workshops in our online store. We hope you’ll join us for one or all of these terrific workshops and events!

Writing this edition of inkmail is a strange experience. As some of you know already, I am stepping down from the executive directorship of Inkberry; my last day at the office has passed, and over the last several weeks the good ship Inkberry has been in the capable hands of our new E.D., Jill Gilbreth.

How could I sum up the experiences of the six years since Sandy, Emily and I gathered in my living room to draft incorporation papers for Inkberry? September of 2000 seems unthinkably long ago, and when I pause to think about the years between then and now I’m dazzled by what we’ve done. Inkberry’s marketing and fundraising materials can tell you that in the years since our inception we’ve offered nearly 100 writing workshops and book discussion groups, and presented more than 90 authors in our reading series, but there’s a chasm between facts like those and the lived reality they reflect.

I remember gathering a room full of strangers in the basement of the Main Street Stage for our first workshop in the spring of 2001. (Strangers then; many are friends, colleagues, and board members now.) I remember workshops with two students, and workshops with thirty. I remember meeting Sandy and Emily in downtown North Adams on the eleventh of September, 2001, to look at the 61 Main Street space which would become our first physical home.

I remember inviting poet Donald Hall to be our first reader — and our trepidation as the evening approached. I remember the packed house to which he read, and the fact that none of us had thought to bring a good pen for the book-signing (we borrowed one from the rector.) I remember the glee of inviting Ted Conover to be part of our reading series, and my wonderment when he said “yes.” I remember driving Bob Hicok here from the Albany airport, talking about poetry and polar exploration.

I remember the days when we had to explain ourselves to everyone we met, and every organization with whom we wanted to collaborate. I remember how exciting it was when people started to recognize our name, to compliment our logo, to express interest in our programs. I remember how I wanted to jump up and down the first time my hairdresser said, “oh, yeah, Inkberry — I’ve heard of that!”

I remember the erotica workshop with Hanne Blank, and the Bible reading group with rabbi Jeff Goldwasser and pastor Rick Spalding (and how tickled they were, and are, that theirs is the only course we’ve ever offered that had higher enrollment than the erotica one did.) I remember learning to write midrash with Alicia Ostriker, and making experimental collage-poems with Anne Waldman.

I remember fund drive after fund drive: the first year when we had only 200 names on our mailing list, mostly family and friends, and the more recent years when we’ve sent letters to the more than fifteen hundred people in the Inkberry community. I remember the wild excitement of the day we found out we got the NEA grant. And I remember, too, days when the calendar wouldn’t come together, days when the workshops didn’t fill, days when we weren’t sure whether or how the bills would get paid. I remember days when we left the office early to go get a coffee or an ice cream cone, on the theory that some sustenance and a break would help us see our work in a new light.

I remember brainstorming with Tom, our artistic director, about teen programming and zine-writing workshops. I remember working with Jill, now our executive director, on bringing those zine dreams into reality. I remember Inkstravaganza, the thrill of filling that enormous coffee shop with our friends and supporters; the fabulous art auction; the commemorative poems; the good wishes…

Over the last six years I have learned a tremendous amount about running a business, about working in the arts, and about what it feels like to make a dream real. Starting and running Inkberry has been harder than I ever imagined, and more worthwhile than I had dreamed. And now I’m moving on. I’m a student in the Aleph rabbinic program, and this fall I’ll be taking on a fulltime course load. (If I keep at it fulltime, it will take at least five years; clearly it’s time to get moving.)

I know I’m leaving Inkberry in excellent hands. Jill has been a part of the Inkberry team for almost a year and a half — she was, and remains, our first-ever paid employee, which was a milestone in itself! — and I can’t imagine anyone better-suited to the work of carrying Inkberry forward into the future.

I’ll still be involved, of course. I’m staying on the board of directors, and at some point in the future I will probably find an Inkberry project to associate myself with, so I’m not cutting the cord entirely.

But for now, I’m writing to thank you, from the proverbial bottom of my heart, for the wonderful and wild ride of Inkberry’s first six years. We wouldn’t be here without you, and I hope you’ll continue to be a part of Inkberry for years to come.

— Rachel