It’s silly that I am only blogging about this now. But let’s assume that you are interested in hearing about a fellowship experience at a writing (craft) conference; you don’t care how long ago I actually did the thing. For what it’s worth, it is now April 2025. I went to Martha’s Vineyard in June 2024. Yikes.

I had some history with Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. I received a Parent-Writer Fellowship in 2020 which imploded due to the Pandemic. However, they went ahead with a virtual version and encouraged us to be somewhere isolated but not at home. Some generous relatives donated their condo in Delray Beach. (You can read about that experience HERE.) Then MVICW shut everything down for a couple years as the Pandemic drew out (for-ever!). When they brought it back, for 2024, I was on my last year of being able to apply for the Parent-Writer Fellowship (since my kid was turning 16). I didn’t actually get that fellowship, but I did get another (general) one and decided to invest the rest in this amazing experience I was going to have in (on, it’s an island) actual Martha’s Vineyard.

Saturday. Flight from RDU to NYC. (I was planning to drive, but the cost and inconsistent schedule of the ferry to the island made that nonsensical.) Arrived with more than two hours to spare, partly because my husband was between work and sleep, and I needed a driver. TSA took my toothpaste. At the airport in Raleigh I bought a bev and settled in for the wait, nervous about my connecting flight (too close together!) and my carryon luggage (so expensive!), wanting to make it on to the island today (after five-plus flight changes in the past week and my zone being a seven). On the flight I actually set my Birdie alarm (read: stupid loud) off crawling over a nursing woman. I was hot. I was stressed. And apparently I was a nuisance to others.

But I made it. The Martha’s Vineyard airport is even smaller than I expected; we de-boarded on a rolling staircase and our luggage was handed to us through a window to the outside. I waited on a rocking chair for my $50-plus Uber. I should have made more of an effort to ride-share. But I made it to the Airbnb where I was the first of six to arrive. Via the chat group that we had set up, I found out I would be the only one until late that night, when only one more person would arrive. I chose a bed and unpacked. I walked twenty minutes to the Stop & Shop for groceries, water, and a new phone cord since mine suddenly no longer worked. There are very limited resources on the small island. I passed the Vineyard Arts Project—where the conference itself was going to take place—and had to buy a weird, last cord for $20 because I’m at the end of the world with the rich people. (Most expensive real estate in the country, or something like that.) It was hot.

I ordered pizza in from Vineyard Pizza (veggie) and planned out the week the best I could. New friend arrived and he headed to the James Joyce Festival while I sat alone in the house and read. What else?

Sunday. I woke up on schedule and found my way to Edgartown’s main bus stop on Center Street, waited and read (again). I took the bus to Oak Bluffs, the tourist center of the island, to spend one of my only free moments actually vacationing. Ferries go in and out all day from the bustling streets and regional architecture, the various Jaws photos opportunities. I was early for my orienting tour, so I wandered the shops to get some matcha-berry drink (which was amazing) and shove a bagel in my bag for later. In case.

My orienting tour—which I had booked ahead on the internet—was a three-hour van tour with like six other people and a local (born and raised) tour guide. (This turned out to be a great idea. I was more aware of the island than most of the other conferees.) I was disappointed, though, that the tour didn’t actually stop anywhere to explore or experience. But I learned a lot of things as I was whipped around, seeing the lay of the land unfold out my window, learning the complex, concentrated history of everything from sheep to Indigenous people to Jackie Onassis Kennedy. I’d love to visit each of the towns, but I won’t have time for that.

Not in a hurry to return to Edgartown, I wandered Oak Bluffs, looking for some iron church that I never found, but instead found a cabin community that looked like gingerbread houses. I walked out onto the pier, thinking I might eat there and up to an outdoor bar in a crowded restaurant. I ordered a plate of shrimp and a water (to offset the cost of the shrimp). I ran into someone who recognized me from the airport (!). This is indeed a small place.

I returned to the Airbnb to meet the remaining four housemates, including my roommate from Nevada. They did a great job pairing us up and I’m grateful. I put on a polka dot dress to walk to the Opening Ceremonies, where I already wanted to cling to my housemates but forced myself to chat with Alexander Weinstein and his mom and some other people I have since lost track of. I was exhausted and out of place. But I am here. And I was invited with my housemates and one other person to get seafood on the water for a late dinner, through Edgartown and to the Seafood Shanty. (Things are called shanties and shacks here, but this is facetious, cheeky.) I might have ordered fish and chips. I tried to hold my money close to me, but I am in Rome and I am a temporary Roman. The heat turns violently to cold, a thing that will only happen once or twice during an otherwise hot week, though after this night I kept needlessly carrying sweaters, jackets and scarves with me, thinking I was being smart.

At the house, I read Nettle & Bone until we began a house screening of Jaws. I closed my eyes for jump scares. The tension of that movie holds up after all these years. It was a great way to bond with my housemates and an appropriate beginning to a MVICW conference.

Monday. The first full day of sessions. I spent the morning at the opening session on the writer, slacker, and inner critic with Weinstein. In the break, we housemates were drawn back to the house and lounged around on the deck, reading our poetry aloud to one another, eating small things, and smoking boutique weed (though not me, admittedly). In the afternoon, I used hypotheticals to build characters and the town of Fut with Phong Nguyen and a room of other conferees. Evening readings were given by Nguyen and Christopher Citro, both impressive writers whom I believe I’ve heard from before. Nguyen is my spirit animal, skipping merrily from genre to genre.

After all that work, we played by walking to a garden-store-slash-pizzeria for beers and more veggie pizza and where some non-housemate skipped out on her tab. I read to sleep with my new booklight (super intelligent thing to bring to a conference with a roommate).

Tuesday. I attended my first session with Anthony Correale on placing the frame. My afternoon session was a sort of given, the second part of Nguyen’s Fut, but building strong “connective tissue” with plot, characters, setting and theme. I may have a book here about Justine and her cats in Fut. In between, I met my housemate at a cafe called Rosewater for lunch over laptops, munching next to one another as she grades papers, and I do writerly things. The evening readings were Correale and Su Cho.

Wednesday. This was the day “off” to explore the Island, but also to meet with whomever for your manuscript critiques. My fellowship included one of these, so I spent the morning time nervously waiting for it in a bookbinding class with Sarah Nguyen, then sat down with Weinstein for his critique of a sci-fi story I’ve been working on for a while. So much great feedback. And also encouragement. But I also wanted to use any moments free to their fullest, so I went straight from the critique back to the bus stop and boarded a bus for the Aquinnah Cliffs. I happened to sit next to one of my housemates, so we rode together up to the Cliffs and did most of our exploring together. Bought a Wampanoag “coin” bracelet and granola bars on our way through the Wampanoag shops to the Gay Head Cliffs. Then a long hike down to the beach, where I skittered along the shoreline taking photos and ruminating in the beauty. My housemate eventually left me with his other friends and I hiked in the near-dusk back up for one of the last buses, where we all rode back together, sun- and wind-swept and ready for dinner and reading (I was on Normal People, now) and bed. About dinner… I walked into Edgartown and found a sammy shop, where I sat and read and looked out on the busy streets and bustling tourists.

Thursday. Another full session day, beginning with a morning session on creative nonfiction with the poet, Su. Returned for lunch at Rosewater with my roommate and two other housemates. This had become our “place.” My afternoon session was fiction with Weinstein, which I followed with dinner back at the house. (I might as well eat these groceries at some point, and save a little money.) The resident readers began that night and some of my housemates read out. After that, my roommate and another housemate took me into Edgartown for karaoke. My one gin and tonic and their many drinks led to a few songs, only one from me because my second song got pushed back indefinitely by wealthy, drunk tourists’ fifty-dollar tips to the karaoke guy. Sigh. It was a raucous, carefree night from a different life that I will not soon forget.

Friday. Final full day of sessions. Morning was publishing with Citro, afternoon a Writers Life panel with everyone. Lunch in between was at Rosewater. I laid low until the evening resident readings, where I read a humorous reading (with swears) from a short story I have yet to have published. It got laughs, which made me so happy. (I had learned just a couple months before that reading fast does not get you any points with the audience. Choose something that can fit comfortably in your time constraints, and you will impress more.) After all that, there was a brief closing ceremonies and I was able to take a breath and walk away after being overwhelmed with interactions all week. I walked alone through a dark Edgartown out to the lighthouse as the Strawberry Moon rose giant and red (actually) over the ocean. I grabbed an ice cream from the Scoop Shack on my walk back to the house, up some lonely, dirt road.

Saturday. Was head-home day. I shared an Uber to the airport with a new friend (read: housemate), where we arrived before our counter even opened. (It’s a small building with a few counters). When I got called in to wait for my flight, I was surprised-not-surprised that my “gate” was some benches in an open-sided tent. I waited, amused, as my housemate eventually joined me because this bench-tent-gate was the only bench-tent-gate, of course. And then I was whisked off to a bigger airport (in DC, skimming over the Mall on our descent) where I caught a bigger plane home and back to my regular programming.

Conclusion: As I have said before, this conference was not usual. It is also sometimes called a residency, but there is a limited amount of critique and networking, more creative exercise and education. The point is to awaken your muse. I found the networking bits and trying to get along with people I don’t know to be exhausting, but I would do it again, because there were also amazing things about it (and next time I’ll know what to expect). Then again, I might want to try other residencies and conferences out, too. But it will be hard to beat Martha’s Vineyard, as far as in-country experiences go. Maybe one day they’ll ask me to return as a triumphant success story, to teach instead of be taught.

Note: I did meet up with one of my housemates like a month later. I was in the same state, traveling, and drove an hour with my fam in tow to have dinner with him. I was also supposed to have coffee with one teacher, but he got sick. He lives where my husband’s family is, so maybe next time. I also occasionally get messages from my housemates suggesting competitions or asking writer questions.