# For Whom the Writing Goes
by Damon Guinn
It’s 1:30 p.m. on the first day of a writing re-
treat at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum and
Educational Center in Piggott, Arkansas, and I’m
camped out in a bathroom between the mu-
seum/house and gift shop. I’m supposed to be
working on “my art,” but the gastric remains of
junk food, coffee, and energy drinks—fuel from
a two-day road trip—have just erupted in my lower
GI.
Earlier, seven attendees and I kicked off the
retreat with introductions and an overview from
the instructor and writer-in-residence, Mary
Miller. Miller, a storyteller whose prose chron-
icles the tension and tedium of everyday life, has
published two novels, two collections of short
stories, and several pieces of flash fiction. She’s
shrewd with a sharp wit, and after reading her
story collection, Big World, I was convinced that
she would have something to teach me.
Arkansas State University Heritage Sites has
been hosting the retreat at the Hemingway-
Pfeiffer Museum annually since 2002. Every year,
the visiting author signs a quilt square that is
framed and placed on a wall in the Educational
Center. The earliest square is from July 7, 2002.
It’s signed by author Lorian Hemingway, the
daughter of Gregory Hemingway, Ernest’s young-
est son with Pauline. Both she and her father—
who later identified as Gloria and underwent
gender reassignment surgery—each have fascinat-
ing stories all their own.
Following our morning discussion and an
awkward lunch, we are given an hour and a half
of independent writing time. The director, Shan-
non Williams, tells us that we are free to write
wherever we like—at the Educational Center, in
the Pfeiffer house, or at the studio above the barn
where Hemingway did most of his work while vis-
iting. I decide to follow Dr. Adam Long, who is
the executive director of Arkansas State Univer-
sity’s Heritage Sites, and a sixty-something man
named Bill from Kentucky.
Adam leads us to the house and gives us a
cursory tour of the rooms, pointing out choice
spots. I pick an open room on the second floor
with conference chairs arranged around the peri-
meter.
Adam explains that there probably won’t be
any tours, but if people do come through, I can
just close the door and continue working. That
will be interesting, I think, imagining myself
springing to my feet and slamming the door on
a family who planned months in advance to visit
this historic home once graced by Hemingway.
He adds that he will lock the front door to the
house because it tends to blow open. Then he
and Bill head off to see the rest of the house.
I start working on a story about rivalry be-
tween childhood friends, something I’ve been
playing around with for years, but I’m too unset-
tled to focus.
Before traveling to Piggott, I watched Ken
Burns’ PBS documentary on Hemingway, so I’m
curious to explore the house and see remnants
of the writer’s experience in Arkansas. As I
wander from room to room looking at the mem-
orabilia, the downstairs door opens and closes. I
hear shuffling and banging. Bill must have re-
turned, and it sounds like he’s burglarizing the
place. I want to investigate, but my gut starts to
rumble, and I’m forced to bolt down the stairs
of the museum three at a time and make a
clench-cheeked beeline for the bathroom.
My first day and I already can’t stomach it.
*Fathers and Sons (with a Mother in the Mix)*
My trip to Piggott had taken a surprise turn
when my traveling companion, my eleven-year-
old son Oliver, and I arrived at the midway point
of our drive. I had reserved a teepee on Airbnb
for a stop in Kansas City, Hemingway’s old
stomping grounds, on the way to my parents’
place in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Oliver was going
to hang out with his grandparents and cousins
while I attended the retreat.
At the first sight of the teepee, Oliver was
thoroughly nonplussed. “Do we have to stay there
tonight,” he whined. He wanted AC and TV, not
BS. He wanted to be back home playing Fortnite
or Minecraft on his PC, not hanging out in a tee-
pee with faux-Native American décor, listening
to his old man snore.
“It’ll be an adventure!” I enthused.
“Yeah, right,” was his dejected reply.
Situated off a deteriorating highway flanked
by abandoned storefronts, our teepee was tucked
in the backyard of a modest suburban home and
right next to a murky pond that belched with bull
frogs. I went to “test” the outhouse and told
Oliver we would have the distinct privilege of
pooping in a sawdust-filled five-gallon bucket. He
dropped his head in defeat and sulked to the
teepee.
It was muggy outside, and Oliver complained
that he felt sticky and gross, so he stripped off his
shirt and settled in to watch YouTube videos on
his phone. That’s when the bull frogs kicked up
their croaks a notch and started doing call-and-
response with a chorus of crickets.
“How am I supposed to sleep tonight with
all this noise?!” Oliver demanded, storming over
to a chair and announcing that he would be lis-
tening to Yo-Yo Ma until he fell asleep.
“Good call,” I replied, returning to my place
in Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. A short chap-
ter later, I glanced over my shoulder to see Oliver
soundly sleeping while the frogs and crickets
competed for swamp cred.
The teepee was illuminated inside by solar-
powered patio lights that were brighter than a sin-
gle table lamp but dim enough to be ignored by
heavy sleepers. Oliver always slept with a lamp
on; I customarily slept in darkness that rivaled
Vantablack. By 2:00 a.m., Oliver’s phone was
dead, and I was wide awake. Oliver started to toss
and turn while I thought through the logistics of
Plan B. I would simply book a hotel the next day,
and we could spend the afternoon in Kansas City
with friends before driving to Jonesboro on
Sunday.
Plan B changed to Plan C the moment
Oliver woke up.
Bolting upright, he screamed, “I can’t sleep!”
before springing to his feet and frantically pacing
back and forth in the teepee.
“Do you want to pack up and drive to Jones-
boro?” I asked him, hoping he would say no to
the six-and-a-half-hour overnight drive.
“Oh, Dada, I know!” he beamed. “We can
get some gum and energy drinks and listen to
loud music to stay awake! You can get a coffee
and an energy drink, so you’ll have a back-up after
you finish the first.”
We were back on the highway in less than 15
minutes. At 2:30 in the morning.
By the time we made it to Jonesboro, the car,
my son, and I were all cruising on fumes. Oliver
slept soundly for hours after our arrival, while I
struggled to catch any rest whatsoever.
My eyes eventually dimmed as I reread lines
from Hemingway’s story, “Fathers and Sons”:
Like all men with a faculty that surpasses
human requirements, his father was very
nervous. Then, too, he was sentimental, and,
like most sentimental people, he was both
cruel and abused. Also, he had much bad
luck, and it was not all of it his own.
I, too, had been cursed with much bad luck, bad
luck that had left me feeling suicidal at times.
Fortunately, I had a loving son to accompany me
on my journey.
When Monday morning rolled around, I
packed the car for the short drive northeast from
Jonesboro to Piggott. I’m nearly fifty, but my
mom nevertheless insisted on loading me up
with a pantry’s worth of snacks before taking my
picture in front of the car. I felt like an overgrown
kid heading to summer camp.
The drive through rural Arkansas, through
towns named Marmaduke and Rector, made me
lonely—the flat farmland and small, sometimes
desolate, towns reminded me of how empty and
quiet our country can be, so far removed from
the cacophony and occasional chaos of cities like
my current place of residence, Minneapolis.
I decided to attend the retreat based on my
favorable impression of Miller’s writing and my
mom’s recommendation. My mom has been at-
tending the retreat for years, reading occasional
poems about the childhood exploits of my
brothers and me . . . like setting fire to the kudzu
in the ravine behind our old home, “running
away from home” to a fort in said ravine, and
stealing money from an envelope reserved for
church tithing.
Recalling her descriptions of past retreats, I
had serious doubts about attending. I envisioned
a writing group at a retirement home—a bunch
of old biddies and geezers sharing stories about
their grandkids and sciatica. I had never attended
a writing retreat, and I didn’t relish the idea of
having my writing critiqued by a group of geria-
tric strangers. And, honestly, I’m not even a big
Hemingway fan; I enjoy his writing, but I wasn't
convinced it was worth the thirteen-hour drive
to visit the place he occasionally visited while
writing A Farewell to Arms.
Despite all of that, my mom somehow con-
vinced me that I would benefit from the collegial
atmosphere and discussions about craft. Plus, it
was a good excuse to visit my parents and try
something different after a grueling year of
COVID quarantine. That and I was unemployed
after a year and a half of job rejections.
When I finally pulled into the drive of the
Pfeiffer home, I took a moment to sit in my car
and examine the large but plain Victorian façade.
It wasn’t as stately as I anticipated. It didn’t look
grandiose enough to temporarily house Heming-
way’s larger-than-life persona or the fortunes of
his in-laws’ pharmaceutical empire, even as it
dwarfed the ’70s-style brick rambler that served
as the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Educational Center,
where our writing classes would be held.
As I entered the center and angled my way
toward a seat, an older woman at the conference
table blurted out, “I bet I know who you are!
You’re Fay’s son.” She introduced herself as
Charlotte. Another woman in the room chimed
in, “Oh, yeah. Fay with no E. She’s a regular.”
That was Talya, the only published novelist in the
group besides the instructor.
Oh, great, I thought. Every expletive and
lurid phrase I read aloud is going to find its way
back to my mom.
*A Clean, Well-Lighted Place*
We kick off the first class with a great con-
versation about the humor and wisdom of Anne
Lamott’s Bird by Bird, a book all novice writers
are encouraged to read, and then dive into a
reading of Joe Brainard’s I Remember. Miller, our
instructor, reading the crowd, skims over Brai-
nard’s more titillating memories about his sexual
experiences.
We break for independent writing time after
lunch. That’s when I wind up alone in the
Pfeiffer house. Returning to the Educational
Center, Karen, an assistant with ASU Heritage
Sites, announces to the room, in what could
easily be confused as a conspiratorial tone, that I
selected Max’s room. Max was the Pfeiffer’s
fourth child who died from the 1918 flu epi-
demic at age eleven. I had chosen the dead kid’s
room, who died from the flu no less!
Once the entire group reconvenes, two at-
tendees volunteer to share what they wrote dur-
ing the break. Tonia, a retired attorney from
Little Rock, details her discovery that the man
she adored as her maternal grandfather wasn’t
her real grandfather. Next, Bill, whose occupa-
tion escapes me, launches into a sprawling, bor-
derline-metaphysical account of his life and the
universe. We’re dumbfounded. It’s a prolix solil-
oquy that sounds like free verse. (The next day,
Bill transforms the first chapter of prose into a
poem per the group’s recommendation, and we
all agree that it’s much better.)
With that, we’re dismissed for the day, and I
jump in my car and make a run for the Missouri
border. Piggott is in a dry county, and I need
booze to help me sleep and process my first
strange day at the retreat.
Back in my room at the Inn at Piggott, I pour
myself some scotch, fire up Spotify for back-
ground music, and set to work on a story. But
again, I’m too distracted and it’s only the first
day, so I step outside my room to inventory the
inn’s lounge and dining room. As I do, the door
clicks shut, and I immediately realize I’m locked
out. Shit! My cell phone is in the room, and
there’s no phone in the lobby. I ring the front
bell, but no one responds, so I head back to the
second floor and nervously knock on the guest’s
door across from mine. No answer. I cross the
hall and knock on another door.
“Is someone out there?” a woman yells. She
peeks through the curtain in the door’s window,
and I recognize Charlotte’s face. “Who is that?!”
“It’s Damon, Charlotte. I’m sorry to bother
you, but I’ve locked myself out of my room, and
I need to call someone to let me in.”
“I’m not dressed, Damon,” she adds before
quickly cracking open the door and thrusting her
phone at me.
“I’m very sorry. This should only take a mi-
nute,” I reassure her.
“It’s okay,” she tells me. “I’m your mother’s
friend.”
Sleep comes easier that evening with the
help of scotch. Like the old man who stays too
late drinking at a café in Hemingway’s story, “A
Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” I feel like the loneli-
est man in the world, the drink in hand my only
companion. But I am settling in. I don’t even
mind the rumble of trains outside the inn.
*A Way You’ll Never Be*
We open the conversation on the second day
with a discussion about Jo Ann Beard’s essay
“Now,” which I love for the vivid description of
Alaska, the author’s channeling of her father’s
World War II experience, and references to Neil
Young and Denis Johnson. There is dissent over
the essay’s value. Some of us like the imagery and
the free-form style; others are frustrated by the
lack of structure and focus.
We learn that the piece was originally a
speech Beard presented and later printed in
AGNI magazine. Beth, a writing instructor at the
University of Tennessee-Martin, is not cool with
this. “Do you think we could get away with some-
thing like that?”
Mary adds that Beard wrote a celebrated
essay for The New Yorker called “The Fourth State
of Matter” about a mass shooting at the Univer-
sity of Iowa that won her a loyal audience. Mary
promises to hunt it down.
Next up is Cheever’s story, Reunion. This one
is about an estranged father and son on a day-
drinking excursion. It promptly brings out the
psychoanalysts among us. Bill, for the first of
what will be many times to follow, opens the Pan-
dora’s Box of his personal life and shares an ac-
count of his time in a psychiatric hospital. As he
veers farther off topic and into the murkier re-
cesses of his mind, the rest of us, intrigued and
unnerved, collectively pull back a little from the
table, acknowledging that a boundary has been
crossed.
Charlotte, a former school librarian, soon
mollifies us with a piece about her childhood in
the ’50s. Then Beth shares a story about meeting
William Stafford during her stint as a graduate
student, recalling how she smugly treated the an-
thologized poet. Her story is full of subtle refer-
ences to Stafford’s “Traveling Through the
Dark.” The references are lost on our group. It’s
been more than twenty years since I’ve read the
poem, and the others haven’t read it at all. But
it’s a clever story, and a beautiful reminder to
wake up every morning and get to work on what
you love.
That evening after dinner, I grab some
scotch, my portable speaker, and a copy of
Beard’s “The Fourth State of Matter” and head
to the rear deck of the inn to read and scribble
some thoughts. The sun sets in time with Yo-Yo
Ma’s cello. The deck shakes as a train blows by
in the background. Birds dart by, surfing the
breeze and skirting past a waxing gibbous moon
that has just begun to peak around the corner of
the inn’s roof. A text from my wife says she’ll call
soon. The phone remains silent.
I look across the town from the balcony. It
must have been a much different place in Hem-
ingway’s day. I gulp down the scotch, savoring the
earthy-sweet bloom of heat in my mouth. I know
that I will never be the writer I want to be.
Back in my room, I pull up Elia Kazan’s A
Face in the Crowd on my laptop. The movie is Pig-
gott’s other major claim to fame. Part of the film
is set in the town.
The movie had a resurgence after the 2016
election. Several political commentators noted
the similarities between Donald Trump and the
film’s main character, Larry “Lonesome”
Rhodes. Lonesome is a drifter who uses his good-
ole-boy schtick to rise to celebrity status on TV
before wedging his way into politics. He’s even
referred to as an “influencer,” just like today’s
tech-savvy promoters. And, like Trump, he em-
bellishes a populist persona to pitch false claims
to “real Americans” over the airwaves.
Piggott is smack dab in Trump country. I
could walk a few blocks from the main square
and spot at least two or three “Trump 2020”
banners and even a crudely written “Stop the
Steal” yard sign.
The irony isn’t lost on me, but, judging by
the political placards lingering long past the elec-
tion, the locals didn’t get the memo.
*A Day’s Wait*
On Wednesday morning, Mary is excited to
ask us about “The Fourth State of Matter.” We
dig into Beard’s description of the degeneration
of her dog, her husband’s abandonment of their
marriage, and the mass shooting that kills her
colleagues in the Department of Physics and As-
tronomy at the University of Iowa. It’s a riveting
essay with an eloquence that forces us to question
our abilities as writers. If it takes a topic as horri-
fic as mass murder to be a noteworthy writer,
what hope do we have?
“I guess I can’t be a writer, then,” Charlotte
says. “Nothing that interesting happens to me.
My life is too normal.”
We take turns offering her hollow words of
encouragement, but each of us seems to realize
the reality of the situation. A devastatingly sad
essay has left us sadder still.
Fortunately, Karen turns our thoughts and
stomachs away from despair. A veteran violist
with the Memphis Symphony Orchestra, Karen
shares a short piece about a subject that is near
and dear to our hearts and stomachs: pork. She
strings together a comparative history of pork
dishes in the Mid-South with their native dishes
in Austria, Germany, and France, singing its
praises by way of allusions to great composers. It’s
the perfect transition to lunch.
I head back to the inn for a phone interview
for a job in Minneapolis then set about revising
my unfinished short story. It’s my turn to read
my work during the afternoon session, and I’m
not relishing the potential criticism.
Back in the classroom, I read the first part of
my story, summoning the speed and tone of the
story’s insecure, adolescent narrator. Even
though I emphasize words like “piss” and “dick,”
the overall response is positive. A couple of the
attendees say they can relate to the narrator’s
plight. Some want to know what happens in the
second part since I accidentally include a page
and a half of it. I’m reworking the second part, I
explain, describing some of the potential plot
scenarios.
Talya reads a flash fiction story next. It’s
about an aging woman inspecting her garden in
the morning. I can easily imagine the piece in
the “Readings” section of Harper’s magazine.
Before we break for the day, I invite the
group to join me for dinner at the pizza place on
the square and note that the deck behind the inn
has a great view of the sunset. I’m in need of
some company. Tonia and Talya are the only
takers.
We are the only customers, too, so we ask the
teenage waitress holding down the fort if it’s okay
to bring our own wine into the restaurant. “I
don’t know, but I doubt anyone will be here to-
night, so I really don’t care,” she replies noncha-
lantly before returning a few minutes later with
three large Styrofoam cups. Without missing a
beat, Tonia hands me the key to her room and
gives me instructions on where to find her box
of Franzia. Minutes later, I retrieve it from the
mini fridge, two short paces past a three-box
tower of cigarette cartons. I also grab a bottle of
red from my room and smuggle the stash back to
the pizza joint in my book bag.
Tonia, Talya, and I wash down our pizza with
glassfuls of contraband, rehashing the day’s dis-
cussions and basking in the moment.
*One Reader Writes*
We dive into some flash fiction samples on
the following day, starting with George Saunders’
story “Sticks.” One of my favorite living writers,
Saunders captures my attention by creating ab-
surd and surrealistic settings that are navigated
by characters struggling with their humanity.
“Sticks” is about Saunders’ father’s tradition of
decorating a pole for the holidays.
The story inspires me to search for quotes
from Saunders while the group reviews our other
samples for the day. Saunders has a reputation
for producing quotes like this: “What I regret
most in my life are failures of kindness. Those
moments when another human being was there,
in front of me, suffering and I responded . . .
sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.”
I will soon discover that this is the universe,
via Saunders, preparing me for the afternoon
session.
One o’clock rolls around, and I meet with
Mary for my one-on-one review session. I had de-
cided to share the first ten pages of a memoir I
began writing during the pandemic because it felt
like the most earnest writing I’ve done to date.
The book opens with a recollection of a near-fatal
night in December 2020 before shifting to the
year I spent in Bulgaria after graduating from col-
lege. Mary points out that the sections about Bul-
garia come across more naturally than the rest.
She encourages me to keep working on the ma-
terial and share the draft with her once I have
two hundred pages.
I leave the review session feeling optimistic
about my writing for the first time in as long as I
can remember. I’ve always considered myself
more of a reader than a writer, so the validation
gives me a boost.
The confidence doesn’t last long. Back in the
class, I read a couple of my poems, foolishly fol-
lowing Beth, the real poet in the room. I first
read a poem called “Old Man Winter.” At the
end of the first page, I freeze. I haven’t printed
the second page. The room is silent. Embar-
rassed, I quickly print copies of the second page,
pass them around the table, and resume my
reading. When I finish, I get an obligatory
“That’s nice” from someone before the others
start lobbing questions and comments my way.
“What do you mean by ‘latent snow’?” one
woman asks.
“I was thinking of the dormant quality of a
pending snowstorm,” I argue. “You know, when
you can feel it coming? The expectancy. The
nearness.”
“Maybe you should change this to a flash
fiction piece,” another recommends.
“Yeah, I can see that” is my lame reply.
“Do you really need the adjective ‘dusty’ to
describe the smell of radiator heat or ‘musty’ for
the warmth of an afghan?” the instructor asks.
“Well, younger readers might not have a clue
what radiators smell like and might not even
know what an afghan is.” It was a weak defense,
but it makes sense to me.
The next poem I read is about my daughter—
her search for knowledge and answers and my
fear of losing her too soon to a cruel world. I
choke up as I read a stanza about wanting to
shield her from pain as she grows increasingly
distant. “But you’re leaving me at thirteen,” I
read. “/ Too soon, it seems, / To fully protect you
or to fully grieve.”
The tears flow without warning. My strained
relationship with my daughter has been lingering
in the back of my mind for months now, and I’m
finally processing it. I apologize and explain it’s
the first time I’ve read the poem aloud. The
others smile as I finish the piece. My pathetic
display is met with positive reception, and for the
first time all week, I’m glad to be here.
That evening, after a catfish dinner with the
group, I let myself decompress. In a sense, I’ve
accomplished something I wasn’t expecting—I’ve
held out my writing as a mirror image of myself,
reflecting deeply seated thoughts and beliefs for
others to see, while discovering another vision of
who I’ve become and who I want to be.
*The End of Something*
Boobs. That’s the topic that provides some
much-needed levity during Friday’s discussion.
It’s inspired by the reading of Lucille Clifton’s
poem, “homage to my hips.” The attendees
wonder if any poets have written about boobs in
the same way, prompting Charlotte to search the
web. She comes across a book about Asian
breasts. I jokingly tell her to proceed with
caution. Scrolling down a webpage, she gasps,
“Oh, my!” and we all start laughing.
The conversation takes a more serious tone
when we discuss the story “Envy” by Kathryn
Chetkovich. It’s about her relationship with Jo-
nathan Franzen, and her jealousy over his suc-
cess. She doesn’t mention him by name in the
story, but everyone looks it up.
It’s an appropriate choice for one of our final
readings during the retreat. Envy could be con-
sidered a central theme of Hemingway’s work.
His characters envy bullfighters, wild game
hunters, other men’s women. To an extent, Hem-
ingway envied the writers in Paris who helped
him get recognized for fiction: Sherwood Ander-
son, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and F. Scott
Fitzgerald. Some of those writers ultimately en-
vied him in return—or, at least, Fitzgerald did if
Hemingway’s own egotistical account in A
Movable Feast is any indication.
I’m certainly envious of the other writers in
the group who appear confident and at ease with
their writing, something I had hoped to achieve
by attending the retreat.
As the final day progresses, Talya shares a
story about the deterioration of her long-vacant
high school and the disappearance of time. We
take turns sharing memories of our old schools,
enchanted by nostalgia.
Karen captures our attention with a trave-
logue about visiting Key West during the Cuban
Missile Crisis in 1962. We all want to hear more
about the mermaids of Weeki Wachee and
Karen’s mother’s nucleomituphobia (a term that’s
new to all of us). I don’t think to ask Karen if she
knew about Hemingway when she was a little girl
traveling through his former place of residence a
year and a half after he blew his brains out in
Idaho. And what would the author have made of
the Bay of Pigs and the missile crisis? Hemingway
didn’t have much interest in Castro and Guevara
or their fight against Batista. He just wanted to
fish and drink and salvage his reputation as a
writer with The Old Man and the Sea.
The reading that most intrigues me is a final
poem from Beth called Trail. She asks us to con-
sider two possible endings. I opt for the first ver-
sion but think she should stop short with the
lines: “Listen to the bell ring. / It does not have
to be / the devil declaring / he’s come to call
again.”
I recognize it as a nod to Hawthorne’s
“Young Goodman Brown,” but I don’t probe
Beth about the allusion, and I gloss over the pos-
sible connection to For Whom the Bells Tolls. It’s
only after the retreat that I review the ending of
Hemingway’s highly regarded novel. The book
ends with the main character, Robert Jordan,
lying in a forest with a broken leg as he prepares
to blow up a bridge to thwart the enemy’s ad-
vance. Jordan faces a dilemma: He can carry out
the mission and wait for the enemy to find him
and kill him while his fellow soldiers escape, or
he can try to flee with his comrades and possibly
live out his days with his lover, Maria. He chooses
to stay, the smell of the pine needles on the forest
floor flooding him with nostalgia.
The novel reminds us of nature’s maxim: All
things must come to an end; we are simply part
of the cycle. Life can seem futile, but does it re-
main so if we get to choose how to live it?
I came to the retreat with a sense of dread. I
thought I would be bored, that I wouldn’t have
anything in common with the attendees. I would
realize my efforts to write were hopeless, and it
would drive me deeper into the depression that
have haunted me for years.
Instead, I left the retreat with a sense of pur-
pose. Impressed with the insight of my fellow
writers and their confidence to examine mem-
ories both beautiful and hideous. I want that. I
don’t want to succumb to despair and cut my life
short like Hemingway.
The devil might very well come calling again,
but hopefully I’ll be too busy writing to pay him
any attention.
## Delta Sources and Resources
##### The Hemingway-Pfeiffer Summer Writer’s Retreat
Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum and Educational Center
Piggott, Arkansas
by Marcus Charles Tribbett
[](https://kb.astate.edu/uploads/images/gallery/2026-08/image-1786995662622.png)
Hemingway-Pfeiffer House.
Photo courtesy of Damon Guinn.
Hosted annually since 2002 (as 2021 at-
tendee Damon Guinn notes in his essay in this
issue), the Summer Writer’s Retreat at the Hem-
ingway-Pfeiffer Museum in Piggot, Arkansas, has
attracted a wealth of talent for decades—both
among participants and teachers. Recent past
writers-in-residence have included Matt Gal-
lagher, author of two novels and a collection of
short fiction; Mary Miller, who has two novels
and two short story-collections; Hugh Martin
with three book credits; C.D. Albin, journal ed-
itor, poet, and short story author; and Pat Carr
with sixteen published books.
An interactive experience for aspiring and
published writers alike, the retreat strives to be a
place where the craft of writing is sharpened, cre-
ativity is strengthened, and camaraderie and
friendships are fostered. The teachers have dec-
ades of experience among them as creative writ-
ing instructors and workshop leaders.
This year’s writer-in-residence is Matthew
Pitt, Associate Professor of Creative Writing at
Texas Christian University. Pitt has worked in tel-
evision and as an editor, has published two short-
story collections, These Are Our Demands and
Attention Please Now, with a third underway and
a forthcoming novella, The Be-Everything Brothers.
Additional information about the retreat,
held this year from June 19th to the 23rd, and a
downloadable registration form can be found on
the museum’s website at hemingway.astate.edu.
As the site notes, “participants come from all
backgrounds and experience levels.” Seize your
chance to be mentored and work in a construc-
tive and collaborative atmosphere in a beautiful,
historic setting. Registration fee is $325.
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Inside Hemingway’s Barn Studio.
Photo courtesy of Damon Guinn.