|photo by Rural Explorer|
It was the summer I smoked grapevine. (We were convinced we would get high.) It was the summer I fell in love with an Arkansas artist who--when we parted--said he'd kiss me good-bye except he had some "chew" in his mouth. And it was the summer I learned how easy it was to be fierce--as long as I stood on my own two feet.
Since the only guys on our crew were the park ranger (he drove us to our work every day) and the night caretaker (he killed the rattlesnakes and kept an eye on us), all the work was done by the young women. We sweated, we strained but we perservered.
One weekend, as a treat, we went to visit another YCC site in Arkansas. (Enter and exit the artist with the horrible tobacco drool.) This team was co-ed, and we quickly discovered that the girls on the crew made a habit of hanging back, claiming the work was beyond them, so they could rely on the guys to do the physical labor.
There are times when I have to send off a submission and I don't get the chance to share it with my writing critique group. It's all on me. There are times when I bring a story to get critiqued and it doesn't have a title, and I'm tempted to just rely on the group and ask, "Hey, what should I call this?" But really, it's my responsbility to name my baby. There are times when I flounder with a piece, but I channel my critique group members and usually--not always--figure out where I should go with it.
Obviously, being part of a crew or group makes me stronger, but if we all work together and pull our own weight, we...are...fierce.