The Writer's Workshop Check out my friend Jack Timmons’ BBQ place featured in the Sunday Seattle Times.
Category: Wine Making and Wine Writing
Visiting Cain Winery and Vineyard
I had the pleasure of visiting Cain Vineyards in the Napa Valley and spending an afternoon talking with winemaker/ philosopher Chris Howell and later tasting his wines during a fabulous dinner at Terra Restaurant. Check out his wonderful, subtle, food-friendly wines.
Revising Your Life: Turning True Events into Compelling Stories
There are still a couple spots left in my fall class for The Writer’s Workshop. Let me know if you’d like to sign up!
Revising Your Life: Turning True Events into Compelling Stories
It may happen in the shower. On the way to work. Taking a crowded elevator. Suddenly a story idea seizes you. You must write it down! You find a pen and piece of paper, plunge into the story, and write nonstop until you finish a first draft. You put it aside. A day goes by. Two days. You pick it up again. Sure there’s some good stuff there, but the rest of it is, well, less than perfect.
If you’re like most writers, you put the material in the drawer and hope someday to get around to finishing it. How do you push beyond the messy first draft most writers produce to craft a compelling story or book chapter? This eight-week class in nonfiction and fiction will show you how to make that happen. You’ll learn essential techniques of research, interviewing, writing scenes, character sketches, structuring, revision, and how to put the finished manuscript into the hands of the right editor.
The course will run Oct. 15 to Dec. 3 on Wednesday evenings from 7 to 9 p.m. in Room 221 of the Good Shepherd Center in Wallingford (4649 Sunnyside Ave. N.)
There will be six assignments, including a 150-word story idea, a 250-word research assignment, a 250- to 500-word dialogue exercise, a 1000- to 1500-word first person story, a revised first person story, and a 250-word cover letter. In addition to the classroom work, I will schedule individual conferences with each student. This will give me a chance to go over your work with you one-on-one and suggest ways to improve it.
Texts: Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and Best American Essays of the Century edited by Joyce Carol Oates. Both titles are available at the Elliott Bay Book Company, 206-624-6600.
To enroll, please send me check for $600 to 201 Newell St., Seattle, WA 98109 or you can pay with a credit card through the paypal link on my website. Enrollment is limited to 15. For more information, contact me.
Hiking in Provence
Here’s my take on the food, wine and wonders of hiking in Provence, from the latest issue of Alaska Airlines Magazine.
Excellent Letter from Richard Russo On Amazon Book Dispute
The primary mission of the Authors Guild has always been the defense of the writing life. While it may be true that there are new opportunities and platforms for writers in the digital age, only the willfully blind refuse to acknowledge that authorship is imperiled on many fronts. True, not all writers are equally impacted. Some authors still make fortunes through traditional publishing, and genre writers (both traditionally published and independently published) appear to be doing better than writers of nonfiction and “literary” mid-list fiction. (The Guild has members in all of these categories.) But there’s evidence, both statistical and anecdotal, that as a species we are significantly endangered. In the UK, for instance, the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society reports that authors’ incomes have fallen 29 percent since 2005, a decline they deem “shocking.” If a similar study were done in the U.S., the results would be, we believe, all too similar.
On Tuesday, Amazon made an offer to Hachette Book Group that would “take authors out of the middle” of their ongoing dispute by offering Hachette authors windfall royalties on e-books until the dispute between the companies is resolved. While Amazon claims to be concerned about the fate of mid-list and debut authors, we believe their offer—the majority of which Hachette would essentially fund—is highly disingenuous. For one thing, it’s impossible to remove authors from the middle of the dispute. We write the books they’re fighting over. And because it is the writing life itself we seek to defend, we’re not interested in a short-term windfall to some of the writers we represent. What we care about is a healthy ecosystem where all writers, both traditionally and independently published, can thrive. We believe that ecosystem should be as diverse as possible, containing traditional big publishers, smaller publishers, Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores, as well as both e-books and print books. We believe that such an ecosystem cannot exist while entities within it are committed to the eradication of other entities.
Over the years the Guild has often opposed Amazon’s more ruthless tactics, not because we’re anti-Amazon but because we believe the company has stepped over the line and threatened the publishing ecosystem in ways that jeopardize both our livelihoods and the future of authorship itself. There’s no need to rehash our disagreements here. But it is worth stating that we are not anti-Amazon, or anti-e-book, or anti-indie-publishing. Amazon invented a platform for selling e-books that enriches the very ecosystem we believe in, and for which we are grateful. If indie authors are making a living using that platform, bravo. Nor are we taking Hachette’s side in the present dispute. Those of us who publish traditionally may love our publishers, but the truth is, they’ve not treated us fairly with regard to e-book revenues, and they know it. That needs to change. If we sometimes appear to take their side against Amazon, it’s because we’re in the same business: the book business. It may be true that some of our publishers are owned by corporations that, like Amazon, sell a lot more than books, but those larger corporations seem to understand that books are special, indeed integral to the culture in a way that garden tools and diapers and flat-screen TVs are not. To our knowledge, Amazon has never clearly and unequivocally stated (as traditional publishers have) that books are different and special, that they can’t be treated like the other commodities they sell. This doesn’t strike us as an oversight. If we’re wrong, Mr. Bezos, now would be a good time to correct us. First say it, then act like you believe it. We’d love to be your partners.
A Winery to Watch
The Writer’s Workshop Blog highlights my adventures teaching writing classes, writing stories, articles and books, leading travel, food and wine writing classes to France and Italy, traveling the globe, promoting my books including the novel, The Storms of Denali, and other aspects of the wild and crazy world of writing and publishing. Writing and publishing are changing enormously and I hope this blog will help keep you up to date on some of the changes.
I recently had the pleasure of attending the 2014 Taste Washington, a food and wine extravaganza in Seattle. I always uncover a lot of great stories at this event. One of the highlights was tasting Chris Peterson’s wines from Avennia. They are made with native yeasts, giving them a sharp, bright profile with a superb finish. Check them out!
Strangers on a Train
The Writer’s Workshop Blog highlights my adventures teaching writing classes, writing stories, articles and books, leading travel, food and wine writing classes to France and Italy, traveling the globe, promoting my books including the novel, The Storms of Denali, and other aspects of the wild and crazy world of writing and publishing. Writing and publishing are changing enormously and I hope this blog will help keep you up to date on some of the changes.
The following story is from Mary Beadles, a student in my 2013 Travel, Food and Wine Writing Class in Montalcino, Italy. I’ll be publishing a number of stories from students in my travel writing class on this blog. They provide a vivid picture of the wonderful places, people and experiences encountered on the trip.
Strangers on a Train
In principal, I have no problem traveling by myself. There’s a lot you can miss if you are constantly surrounded by people. Initial impressions are often interrupted or altered by input from others. And so much local culture and color can be missed during a conversation with a friend, not to mention the loss of freedom to see and do exactly as I choose. And yet, travelling from Florence through the hills of Tuscany alone proved to be plenty challenging, even with a sense of adventure and Fodor’s Italian for Travelers to guide me.
There is no easy way to reach Montalcino from Florence, but the destination is well worth the effort (or so I’d been promised). I was traveling to the ancient hilltop town for a writing seminar on travel, food and wine. The journey would begin with a one-hour train ride to Sienna followed by another hour winding through the hillside on a bus. I’d never traveled alone by train and the bus ride would be a totally new experience. I hated asking for directions and I knew only a smattering of Italian but I had studied the guide book carefully and memorized the bus connection in Sienna. I was confident I could navigate the Italian transportation system with few problems. But there is nothing more deceptive (or dangerous) than the confidence of a fool.
I stepped into Firenze Santa Maria Novella, the main train station in Florence, and was met by a crush of mostly-young travelers carrying massive backpacks with ease. I focused on the task ahead. Buy a ticket to Sienna. To the left was a row of windows below a large sign with a word I recognized. “Biglietti”– Tickets. This was exactly where I needed to be! I smiled with smug satisfaction and followed the line of people until I reached the end which was somewhere along the back wall. It was just now noon—plenty of time. The trains left frequently and, as long as I was on the train before 2P.M. I would have no problem catching the bus from Sienna to Montalcino.
At 1P.M., the line had moved at least ten feet. Now there were only about fifty people ahead of me. I began to worry just a little. If I missed the 1:59 train, I wouldn’t be able to leave Sienna until after five. It would be evening before I reached Montalcino. Time for a new plan. I turned to a friendly-looking young man behind me. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?” I asked.
He smiled, “Yes, I do.”
“Is this the only place I can buy a ticket?”
The boy shook his head. “You can use a machine. Would you like me to help you?”
Problem solved. Soon I had a ticket in hand and was boarding my train. The first row of seats provided space for my bags and a seat for me. Perfect! It was a relief to know that any worries about making this leg of my trip alone were groundless. I settled back as the train pulled away from the station.
It was two or three stops before we cleared Florence. Some passengers had gotten off and others had boarded. At the last stop, a young woman dragging a large suitcase took the seat across from mine. We exchanged smiles before she pulled out a magazine and I turned to watch through the window as the city view gave way to a rural vista.
The train swayed in a gentle rhythm as it rolled down the track. The door at the far end of the car opened and a wild-haired man resembling a caricature of Albert Einstein entered. He was dressed in a shabby dark blue uniform with shiny brass buttons and I watched as he moved from passenger to passenger. The conductor, I realized as he came closer. When it was my turn, I handed him my ticket and waited for its return. Why was he taking so long? Finally, he handed it back, all the while speaking rapid-fire Italian. I shrugged and shook my head — the universal sign for “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” I turned to my fellow passengers. Across the aisle, a young woman looked on in apparent sympathy while the man in front of her watched the proceedings with a smirk that seemed aimed at the conductor rather than me. I assumed they didn’t speak English and would be of no help.
The conductor took back the ticket and pointed to it. “Forty Euro,” he said. I stared back. He held his hand out. “Forty Euro,” he repeated more loudly. Yes, I understood he wanted me to give him forty Euros for some reason. I shook my head. Was I being held up? Was this some kind of train scam I hadn’t heard about? The conductor turned and walked to the end of the car and I allowed myself to hope that was the end of it. But a minute later he was back. “Come with me,” he said.
“What?” Where could he possibly take me on a train? There was nowhere to go but off.
“Come with me.” His impatience with this American seemed to be growing. I stuffed my book and my iPod into my purse and stood to follow him.
“Should I take my suitcase?” I called after him as he strode down the aisle. The passengers seemed enthralled with the drama, particularly the smirker across the aisle. Through his eyes, I began to see the humor in the situation and I found myself playing to my audience. “Are you throwing me off the train?” I called after him, raising my voice and throwing my hands in the air. “Should I bring my bag?” Of course he couldn’t understand anything I was saying, but I hoped he understood that he could not intimidate me. I was also somewhat comforted by the fact there were witnesses.
He stopped in front of a poster on the back wall of the car and put his finger on a paragraph written in English. “Passengers must validate tickets before boarding. Failure to do so may result in a fine up to €40.” Having grown up in a family of lawyers, all I could see were the words “may” and “up to” and more than anything I wanted to argue my case.
“Forty Euro.” The man knew about five words in English and I knew five different words in Italian. There would be no appeal. I handed over forty Euros and took the walk of shame back to my seat. The passengers went back to their books and their music. As my adrenaline dissipated, I just felt like crying. But the young woman across the aisle who had been watching me with obvious sympathy during the entire affair, leaned over and said, “Aso’le!” gesturing toward the receding back of the conductor. I wasn’t sure what she was saying, and then it hit me.
“Asshole?” I asked.
She nodded. “Si. Aso’le!”
And with that one, crude, mispronounced American insult we bonded and I understood that, although I was traveling solo, I wasn’t alone. There were always as-yet-unknown comrades to help along the way. Those like the man with the smirk who reminded me to let humor dispel fear. And the sympathetic kindness of a young woman willing to join me in solidarity against the mini-tyrants we encounter along the way. And even the “aso’les” in this world that bring us all together. When we arrived in Sienna, I gathered my things and took my luggage outside to find the bus that would complete the final leg of my trip to Montalcino. But, along with my luggage, I carried a newly-discovered rule of the road. I might be by myself at the start of my journey, but as soon as I board a train, a bus, a plane, or even a taxi, I’m no longer alone. My traveling companions may be strangers, but for a brief moment in time, we’re all in it together.
Foraging for Words in Tuscany
The Writer’s Workshop Blog highlights my adventures teaching writing classes, writing stories, articles and books, leading travel, food and wine writing classes to France and Italy, traveling the globe, promoting my books including the novel, The Storms of Denali, and other aspects of the wild and crazy world of writing and publishing. Writing and publishing are changing enormously and I hope this blog will help keep you up to date on some of the changes.
The following story is from Lynn Griffes, a student in my 2013 Travel, Food and Wine Writing Class in Montalcino, Italy. I’ll be publishing a number of stories from students my travel writing class on this blog. They provide a vivid picture of the wonderful places, people and experiences encountered on the trip.
FORAGING FOR WORDS IN TUSCANY
By Lynn Griffes
My cappuccino cools as I study the thick froth of clouds between me and the floor of the Val d’Orcia a mile below the Hotel dei Capitani. A line from an old Joni Mitchell song drifts through my mind–something about clouds getting in the way. I squint hard into the white glare of the obstinate mass. Was that a splash of color? Dare I pick up my cappuccino and miss a momentary opening to the transformative gallery of green and gold hills below? My coffee sits untouched on the Delft blue checkered tablecloth.
The travel books about the hill towns of Tuscany say the stunning views are potentially life changing. That sounds good– just what I need and all I have to do is open my eyes! I’m ready for life changing. My son, whom I adore, is about to graduate from the University of Washington, and although parenting never ends until the end, I know it’s now time to widen my interests and endeavors which will in turn, I hope, provide my son the space he needs to go forth and prosper.
So I have gone forth first. I am in Italy, a Seattle moth lured to Medieval Montalcino by the light and shadow of possibility. Is this adventure the catalyst that will help me craft my own Cinderella story for the last third or so of my life? Already just being here has begun to open my heart and eyes.
Massimo glides up to me with a mellifluous, “Bongornio, you want more kaffe?”
He looks at me politely yet with a glint of humor in his inquisitive amber eyes. Black shiny shoes, crisp, navy pants and a white shirt set off his slim build. He questions me from under long straight auburn bangs. “No, thank you, Massimo,” I respond, while keeping a weather eye towards the valley. He slides away, winding through patio tables smooth as a new carry-on with 360 degree spinning wheels.
Although cut off by cappuccino clouds from the promised better-than-therapy view of the revered Tuscan landscape, here on the patio of the hotel, the sun warms my shoulders and I return to my coffee and my abandoned laptop, screen empty, blue cursor blinking in expectation. I’m here to write about food, wine and travel with a bunch of people who never lack for words—other writers. Perhaps they will help me write and edit the story of my life ahead. We have a group from all over—Australia, France, Spain and the U.S. We all like to drink, dine, write, travel and talk. There are only ten of us, plus our fearless leader, editor, motivator and some time wine maker, Nick O’Connell from Seattle.
We travel writers, I learn, need to do lots of food research. We must taste, eat, sip, discuss and savor on a regular if not constant basis interrupted only by the occasional abbey visit, gelato stand or winery tour. In Tuscany, there is often a long walk up hill associated with foraging for words to describe food. I am out of breath, having trudged up myriad cobble stone streets angled at straight skyward. As I climb to the third floor of Theresa’s fortress-like home in Montalcino for what we might call a “down home” Tuscan cooking lesson, I think there is nothing, however, down about this. We are invited into a Tuscan home. Theresa (pronounced Therezza) has welcomed us to cook and dine on “cloud nine,” her aerie at the very top of the village of Montalcino where the air is as clear, sparkling and thin as a Tuscan champagne glass. My huffing lungs remind me that more stair climbing should be part of my new path.
Theresa tells us she is a Roman, an “ancient Roman”. My guess is she is somewhere between 60 and 75 years. She has opened her heart and hearth to our little writers group for an evening of cooking, family style, in her home. We are her bambini for the evening. She is our esteemed and beloved Nona, our trusted guide into the world of Montalcino cookery. We are given aprons, pots, wooden spoons, rolling pins and of course, all the hearty ingredients for making a Tuscan feast. Theresa rules her kitchen with humor and a deft command of the “English” and our language. Perhaps I will learn something from her beyond the cookery. Perhaps I will learn her hearty recipe for a life well lived.
My first lesson—never, never leave the wooden spoon in the pot. I am not cooking the spoon. Our family is not eating the spoon. The spoon must sit along the outside edge of the pot waiting to be useful. “Attend”, she says, “no mixing of spoons and pots.” The eggplant spoon stays with the Tuscan caper sauce. The bacon fork pushes only the bacon and hot red peppers of the Amatriciana sauce. The triple tong stays with the Ragu as if my life depends on it. To look at Theresa’s fierce Tuscan boar brown eyes, maybe my life does depend on it. Although right after she charges towards me with instructions, Theresa laughs like a college kid at a toga party. I have learned something about adding humor to the sauces of life from this strong, energetic and generous Roman.
As the sun sets, the clouds clear, lifting their stage curtain and offering up the visual feast of the Tuscan countryside. The view from Theresa’s home, which in every sense of the word is her castle, speaks of history. Far below in the Orcia River Valley, small wild forests are corralled tightly into triangular pens, creating untouched wilderness areas for creatures of the forest, yet keeping the land open without expanses of trees that might hide an army from Siena or Florence ready to attack. Montalcino is so beautiful and bountiful, who would not want to claim it as their own or fight for it to the death as has happened countless times over so many hundreds of years?
A patchwork of gold, green and grey/blue fields meticulously separated by boundaries of tall slender cypress trees and broad-shouldered Umbrella Pines promises wheat, wine and roses for the Tuscan table. Homes of weathered stone, hunter green shuttered windows and overflowing geranium boxes punctuate the hillsides. Neat lines of vineyard vines guide my gaze from field to field across this magnificent valley of the Orcia River. From ancient times, the land has been groomed to provide security and food. To me it offers an antidote to an uncertain future with its seemingly eternal sense of beauty and peace.
I came here yearning to find the first page of my next chapter, the first step of my new path. The Tuscan land speaks to me in its own patchwork wisdom. Protect your wild side. Honor your history. Plant and prune your garden every day with a knowledgeable hand to nourish your family, friends and future. In turn you will nourish yourself.
And Theresa, whom I fondly think of as “Momzerella” has convinced me to carefully keep my spoons in order. Tonight I will “stir the pot” and send an email to my son, Malcolm, and see if he would like a graduation present from me. Not the tech stock I was planning to give him but a biking adventure in the extraordinary, life-changing land of Tuscany.
BBC Italia: The Pleasures of Barolo, Chianti and Brunello
The Writer’s Workshop Blog highlights my adventures teaching writing classes, writing stories, articles and books, leading travel, food and wine writing classes to France and Italy, traveling the globe, promoting my books including the novel, The Storms of Denali, and other aspects of the wild and crazy world of writing and publishing. Writing and publishing are changing enormously and I hope this blog will help keep you up to date on some of the changes.
The following story is from Alison Holmes, a student in my 2013 Travel, Food and Wine Writing Class in Montalcino, Italy. I’ll be publishing a number of stories from students my travel writing class on this blog. They provide a vivid picture of the wonderful places, people and experiences encountered on the trip.
BBC Italia: A Newbie Somm Tastes (many) Barolo, Brunello and Chiantis
By Alison Holmes
The end of the tunnel was near. I thought about the upcoming, fresh mountain air, the sensation of wind in my hair through the open window and the taste of Piedmontese wine over lunch just a few hours away. My mind happily wandered as I navigated out of the tunnel and on into Italy, right into the arms of the local carrabineri.
Two grim policemen stood in the rain, blocking my route with a round sign on a stick, the kind used by lollypop ladies. Armed with about three words of Italian, I rolled down the window and raised my eyebrows to indicate surprise. They approached and asked for my license and then for an international version. With my hands, I indicated I only had the one, gleaning from their tone of voice and facial expressions it was the law that I had both versions in Italy. True or not, my misdemeanor resulted in a lengthy reprimand from one. Certo, certo nodded the other, lips turned downwards. I paid the fine, sizeable and in cash, took the receipt and wondered whether driving was the best mode of transport in Italy.
For already, the roughly seven-mile drive through the Mont Blanc tunnel from Chamonix, France to Courmayeur, Italy through the alps proved to be a torment for the not so hearty, namely my travelling companion Jan. She hails from flat-land Australia and had not anticipated, she claimed, that the drive from France to our first stop in the Piedmont would be plagued with steep inclines, tunnels and descents worthy of a ride in a Disney park.
With a recent sommelier’s diploma under my belt, much of my time is spent learning more about wine. Everyone, I always say, can learn something new with every bottle uncorked. And so off to northern Italy I go, to size up the lure of these wines on their own turf. For here, in Northern Italy, the rivalry for ‘King of Wine’ reputation is very real indeed.
This ten-day journey covered a drive through some of the most picture perfect countryside: to the Piedmont, to Barolo, and then to Tuscany, to Fiesole outside Florence and on to Montalcino. Nebbiolo, Chianti and Sangiovese territories, in grape order.
It was raining heavily as we stopped for lunch in destination uno, Bra, the Piedmontese town about fifty kilometers south of Turin. Famous as the birthplace of the slow food movement and a stone’s throw from Barolo, we enjoyed a casual lunch with a delicious glass of a light-bodied Barbera d’Asti, known for flavors and aromas of fresh fruit, at the Slow Food branded (snail logo) l’Osteria del Boccondivino.
Trying to forget the day’s negative start, we chatted about the region’s varietals and their merits over lunch. Behind us a table of local gents with time on their hands enjoyed bottle after bottle of various nebbiolos, each selected from what looked like an old fashioned library shelf, this one replete with bottles of wine. I began to relax and look out the window, letting Italy work its magic.
Satiated, we headed off to Barolo and check into a well-appointed three-room agriturismo where the owner, Germano Angelo, sells his wines including Barbera (a grape) and Barbaresco and Barolo (from nebbiolo grapes). Wandering through town, I am hypnotized by Barolo’s complete dedication to its only craft, winemaking. No one does anything else here it would seem, and with reason. Tasting many of the offerings in the wine shops with open doors and open bottles, fond memories of my other loves, Burgundy, Napa and the Languedoc, start to fade. Could this be the one?
That night we enjoyed a modest bottle of Barolo D’Alba (26 Euros) over dinner at the Osteria la Cantinella with some sumptuous tagiatelle ragu. I asked how the pasta was made. “Daily by my mama,” said the girl waiting tables. “She puts forty egg yolks to every kilo of flour.” At that rate, I calculated, there would have to be more chickens than vines in Barolo. Weighing the delights of small towns versus cities, I head to my room where the pigeons in the rafters had also turned in.
The following morning the church bells rang in the day and we were off, to Fiesole where Chianti reigns supreme. Chianti is a blend made from four grape varieties. Sangiovese (the most prevalent grape in Italy) canaiolo, and two grapes used mainly for white wines, trebbiano and malvasia.
Chianti, depending upon where the grape is grown and the vintage, ranges from light and fruity all the way to a full bodied, dry, tannic and acidic wine. With our dinner that night we selected a Castello di Monsanto Il Poggio, Chianti Classico Riserva (30 Euros). This we enjoyed followed by a cool glass of limoncello outside on the panoramic terrace of the Trattoria Le Cave di Maiano just outside Fiesole in the hills, the surroundings enchanting even in the drizzling rain. Florence down below does not tempt me even remotely. I could stay forever, except for the fact that I now knew I favored Barolo over Chianti.
Yet more varietals beckon and we leave for Montalcino, about three hours south to sample some sangiovese masterpieces. Montalcino, a Tuscan hilltop town, boasts some of the most beautiful views imaginable and ample diversions for wine novices alike. Restaurants, cafes, shops, markets etc make this town a very special destination. And for the wine lover, there are about 250 producers of Brunello di Montalcino wines to work your way through. Made of 100% sangiovese grapes, a Brunello must be aged for four years (five for a riserva), two of those in oak and then four months in bottles. The result is an unforgettable, elegant wine, which sings on your tongue: berries, vanilla and spice. The wine merchant located in the town’s 14th century fortress was happy to offer tastings.
The trunk of the car groaned with the weight of the bottles collected en route as we set off for home, stopping at the Prada outlet outside Florence. For what somm doesn’t need a handbag to carry her Brunello?
Travel Writing Classes in Provence, France
Travel writing is one of the most exciting genres of nonfiction, calling on all of an author’s skills—dramatic scenes, character sketches, concrete detail, point of view, scene by scene construction. This six-day intensive travel writing course will introduce you to essential techniques of travel, food and wine writing and give you expert, insider advice about how to submit and publish finished stories.
In addition to learning these skills, you’ll dine at outstanding restaurants, visit some of the world’s best wineries, and explore fascinating historic sights. You’ll enjoy exclusive behind-the-scenes tours unavailable to the general public. Best of all, you’ll receive up-to-date story ideas from local industry experts that you can turn into finished stories by the end of the travel writing course and submit to newspapers and magazines for publication.
The six-day travel writing class (May 18 – 24) will take place in Vaison la Romaine, one of the most beautiful medieval hill towns in Provence, and a center of its cultural and epicurean life since Roman times. The cost will be $2600. Plane tickets and travel to and from Vaison la Romaine are extra. See travel writing page on this website for more information.
To enroll, send me a non-refundable deposit of $800 to 201 Newell St., Seattle, WA 98109. Enrollment is limited to 10. For more information, contact me.
