Guest Post: Andrew Hiller Finds "˜S Wonderful at the Baltimore Faerie Faire

I do my writing in between the cracks of a fulltime job, four dogs, two horses, and the renovation of our house, in which a lot of the work is done by my husband and myself. So yes, my writing time is precious. Very much so. However, most evenings, at least one hour of my time, and sometimes more, is not spent drafting, revising, or editing. Not exclusively. That time is spent in an online writing community, where I am one of the founding members.

For some people who, like me, live in a part of the world where English is not a prevalent language, where cons are few and far between and writing groups even more of an oddity, these online groups are pretty much the only opportunity we have to interact with other writers on a regular basis.

When we first started out, our community had a whopping ten members, give or take, and already we spanned the globe. We had several members living in the US and a strong contingent of at least four people in Europe and Asia, jokingly called the night shift.

But as we built a website, ventured onto Twitter and Reddit, and started promoting our community, our ranks grew and our modest little Discord server sprouted channels left and right. And one thing we always agreed on is that we want to be welcoming to new members.

We want no one to feel unseen, unheard, or unimportant.

I think we’re doing something right, as our membership continues to expand. As of now, eighteen months into our collective journey, we have just over two hundred members. And what I love the most about them is that they are so so wonderfully diverse, and they feel absolutely comfortable talking about their similarities and differences.

We are a home away from home for members of the PoC community, for those who identify as LGBTQIA+, people for whom English is a second language, neurodivergent folks…

If you write, or if you want to write but are struggling to find the courage, then you have a place with us.

As a group, we have a large number of activities going on all the time. We trade critiques, but we also brainstorm when one of us needs help, and we have word sprints to help you get that draft out on the page. Sometimes, it’s as simple as listening to music together in one of our voice channels while you’re writing. Experienced rejectomancers are always at hand to engage in this fine and honorable art. We commiserate when a rejection comes in and cheer for every acceptance.

We laugh together, cry together, and most of all, we are there for each other, constantly pushing each other onwards and upwards.

Nothing makes me prouder than to have stood at the cradle of the INKubator, and to be at hand when a moderator is needed, though that is rarely the case. Nothing brings me more joy than to see a 15-year-old writer’s happiness over an accepted drabble, or to see one of our members adopting the pronoun roles we implemented on the server to avoid misgendering and show that we actively work at being allies.

And so, the writing time I sacrifice doesn’t feel like a sacrifice at all. It’s a joy and a treasure that I hope to have for a long time to come. If you’re considering starting up a similar initiative, I can only advise you to give it a try. It enriches you and your writing in more ways than you thought possible.

If that thought overwhelms you, why not join an existing community? Not every group is the same, and neither is every writer. Gods know we can play and banter as hard as we work and some may find that a bit overwhelming.

There’s only one way to find out whether the water is too hot, too cold, or just right, and that’s by dipping your toes in.

If you’d like to learn more about the INKubator, you could have a look at our website, but the best way to get to know us is by stopping by for a visit.

BIO: Writer, poet, and narrator Jasmine Arch lives in the Belgian countryside with two horses, four dogs, and a husband who knows better than to distract her when she’s writing.

She grew up devouring her brother’s collection of sci-fi and fantasy novels, and her love of the written word in all its incarnations goes back further than her memories and knows no rivals, except the long-suffering husband, though coffee and shoes come pretty close.

Her work has appeared in Illumen Magazine, The Other Stories, and Quatrain Fish, among other places. Find out more about her at jasminearch.com, or connect with her on Twitter @Jaye_Arch.

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Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks (1942) is one of my favorite paintings. There’s something uniquely inspirational in the drama and mystery of strangers gathered at a late-night diner. I also like it because it’s stylistically uncluttered, focused, and full of Mad Men era nostalgia. Recently, I had to pick up some friends from the airport at 5:30 am. Because I like to be painfully early, whether to catch a flight, or to pick people up, I left at 3:00 am. Naturally, I had some time to kill, so I dropped into a nearby Waffle House to see what it might have been like to be one of Hopper’s nighthawks. And also for breakfast.

After a few minutes on the interstate, I took an offramp and made a right turn onto an empty road. The darkness was occasionally punctuated by hotel marquees, stop lights, and an unmistakeable bright, yellow-blocked Waffle House sign. I pulled into the empty parking lot and backed my Jetta under the amber glow of the lone street lamp. At least someone might see me if I got mugged.

Through the windows, I saw a man behind the bar, most likely the cook, and a young lady seated at the end of the counter reading a book. Great, I wasn’t the only nighthawk. And someone should definitely see if I get mugged. I grabbed my trusty notebook from my book-bag and headed in.

There was an American flag sticker on the front door which I half expected to jingle with bells when I opened it. No bells. The globe lights above the bar bathed the dark walnut veneer of the countertop in a warm, diffuse glow. The air conditioning and refrigeration units droned in the background. A Touchtunes jukebox sat on the wall to my right along a row of red stools. It managed hit all the wrong notes of nostalgia and capitalism in one dirty, grey, plastic stroke. And who needed music when you have the soundtrack of clinking plates, and whisking eggs to accompany you?

“How ya doin babes? Just you tonight?” said the woman from the end of the counter. She was a young girl with hair as brown as the pecan pie she was having for breakfast, and judging from her black apron, also my waitress.

“Yup. Just me. Mind if I grab a booth?” I asked.

“Anywhere ya like. As you can tell we’re standing room only right now.” she said with a wink.

“I’ll keep my elbows to myself then.”

I chose a seat at the far end of the restaurant, by the window, right in front a sign that read “PLEASE RESERVE BOOTHS FOR TWO OR MORE GUESTS”. Oops. The waitress grabbed a pad from beside the register and sashayed up to my booth.

“What’ll ya have babes?” she asked. Babes. Not babe. Never babe.

“Let me start with a coffee” I said, looking around for a menu.

“I got you.”

A few seconds later, she brought me a single-page, laminated, red, white, and blue menu, because breakfast, after all, was the most American meal. It seemed like I could just point to a picture and get exactly what was in the picture. It took me a while to orient myself to the heiroglyphics. Did I want two triangles of toast, a yellow lump of eggs, and a floating disc of sausage? Or did I want white blob, a full square of toast, and yellow blob? I was still sleepy so I figured I’d play it safe. Steak and scrambled eggs please, with hashbrowns, smothered and coverd, which in Waffle House parlance meant with diced onions and cheese.

“You got it sweetpea.” Sweetpea. Things were getting serious now.

As she took my menu back, a white hatchback with Pennsylvania plates, and tinted windows pulled up to the window about twenty feet away from the diner and stopped.

“Was that car here when you pulled up?” she asked.

“No.”

“God, I hope nothing weird happens tonight. It’d be great if nothing weird happened again.”

Again? I passed two Waffle Houses on the way to the airport and stopped at this one because I deemed it to be the safest looking one. Swing and a miss. As I waited for my breakfast and potential weirdness to be served, I opened my notebook and took in my surroundings. So this was what it felt like to be in the Hopper painting.

What was it about diners that alway made them feel so familiar? Was it the condiment carrier with the perpetually sticky bottles? The empty dispenser of palm-sized napkins with the syrup ring? The waitress brought me my coffee in a speckled, thick-walled, ceramic mug. It was hot, black, and tasted just enough like coffee. It met the absolute minimum definition of coffee, didn’t try to be anything more, and it was perfect.

The breakfast arrived shortly after on an oval plate. The steak was thin and shaped like no piece of meat I had ever seen before. The eggs were yellow and lumpy, just as the menu promised. The hashbrowns arrived with a very discernable, only slightly melted square of American cheese, fresh from the wrapper, slapped right on top. And I got a bonus four triangles of toast on the side. Aces!

My notebook laid opened on the table.

“You have the prettiest handwriting I’ve ever seen” she remarked.

“Thanks.”

My notes were in cursive. Rage against the dying of the cursive, I say. It was probably for the best that she didn’t clearly see what I was writing down. She might’ve thought I was a health inspector or a food critic. Maybe she thought that anyway.

A steady stream of nighthawks trickled in as I ate my uniquely delicious breakfast. A young black man with earbuds and a contruction vest ponied up to the bar while watching videos on his phone. A middle-aged white man with a goatee and a polo sat down two booths away from me, also ignoring the two person rule. After that, a lesbian couple, an older latino gentleman, and a sleepy looking freshman joined the fray. And thus the portrait was complete, the nighthawks, all together at a Waffle House at 3:00 am. And somewhere between the smothered hashbrowns and slices of toasts were little morsels of inspiration.

Author bio for Khoa Pham: I’m an aspiring writer from North Carolina. Being brand new to this craft, I’m trying to read and write as much as I can. I’m fortunate to have a colorful background that I can pull from to help me write my stories. I’m an actor, veteran, designer, woodworker, immigrant, and new father. Hopefully soon, I’ll be able to add published writer to that list. Writing has been a great outlet for me to get all of the ideas out of my brain space.
Follow him on Twitter as @khoadpham

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