In this new time, which more than ever calls for human connectedness, love and deep reverence for life, the IWWG tells its own story in celebration of its 25th birthday.

“Remember the Magic”
The story of the IWWG, in her own words, by Hannelore Hahn

Chapter Eight

At the time when I was composing “Writing as an Act of Faith,” I also received a letter from the head of the English Department at Goucher College, Professor Ruth Limmer, who invited the Guild to come to Goucher in Towson, Maryland for its 1977 summer conference. A student of hers, Olive Hackett-Shaughnessy, had shown her our Glen Cove conference brochure in the hope that Professor Limmer would extend an invitation. This was indeed welcome since we had no idea if or where we might go that summer. Thus, our first summer conference at Goucher College, July 29-31, 1977, was next.

The title of the conference: “Aspects of Ambivalence: The Yes and No in Ourselves,” was selected by me because it harmonized with Elwil (Betty) Hughes’ theatrical presentation “Of Two Minds,” a centerpiece of the conference. Betty, as was previously mentioned, was also in Vicki Heland’s house “when the Guild was born at her kitchen table.” And her “Montage Script” containing excerpts from the work of 42 contemporary women playwrights was her life’s work. Betty saw in the Guild a chance for her ouvre to see the light of day. At that moment in time, the Guild’s conference format had not yet been defined, hence, why not do a theatrical production of a woman’s work, which had been struggling for years to go public, as our offering for the opening night? Needless to say, we were not prepared for the task, which entailed professional actors to do the reading of the 42 scripts, lasted far beyond the witching hour, and robbed attendees not only of sleep but also of having their voices heard.

But we were not the only ones who were wet behind the ears. So was Goucher. It, too, had no experience with a summer conference and did not supply adequate staff. Room keys did not fit locks, beds had no sheets, and there was no one to turn to for assistance. Thieves had broken into some of the unlocked rooms and stole personal belongings while all of us were in the auditorium for the evening program, and Vicki, who had offered to be in charge of conference registration, was about to quit. In addition, some of the women who had drafted the original Bylaws in my apartment some months earlier were meeting in a separate room to reactivate the original plan of taking over the Guild.

Yet, there were women there who were not aware of any of this and swore this was their best conference experience. The sheer desire and need for women to congregate and workshop, laugh and cry, overcame the chaotic circumstances at Goucher. And that’s the truth. And I? My own excitement prevented me from seeing how bad it really was. This was our zero hour. But partly because the majority did not recognize it as such, it turned around, thanks again to something totally unforeseen and unexpected.

Sometime in the fall of 1977, I received a letter from an English teacher at Skidmore College who asked if she could be a workshop director at our next summer conference.

Next summer? With Goucher out of the question, we clearly had no plans.

“Dear Ms. Swenson,” I replied, “We would indeed be delighted to have you teach a workshop at our next summer conference,” and then I added, “We were wondering therefore if, for that purpose, Skidmore might be available in 1978?”

And that’s how we got to Skidmore, where like swallows returning to Capistrano, we’ve gone back to ever since.

Ironically, though, by the time we arrived that summer, Ms. Swenson, who had opened the gates for us, was no longer there.

Again, the messenger had delivered the message.

* * *

From the beginning, coming to Skidmore gave the Guild the opportunity to invent itself and subsequently set the stage for the potential reinvention of every woman who ever went there.

At a time when writing conferences were about writing literature, and literature was strictly defined to be poetry or fiction, not only did the Guild make room for all kinds of workshops on the writing of the self, but worse, it mixed with abandon workshops considered by the outside world to have nothing to do with writing. What in the heck does kite-flying have to do with writing, for example? Hear Vicki Heland on the subject:
“When you announced that we would have a resident kite master at Skidmore—well, pardon me—that was definitely not what I thought a writing conference should have. And particularly because you had read about this woman in Vogue magazine while you were sitting under a hair dryer. Now I did not think that was a particularly compelling reason. But, you gave it one of your typical ‘Hannelore’ explanations. If I remember correctly, you said that kite flying was like writing because it connected the general with the specific.… You talked about the vastness of the sky and keeping your eye on a single dot.… I don’t know what the heck you said, but I know I cringed. And then there were all those other workshops that didn’t have a scintilla of a connection with writing that I could see, like quilt-making, sewing, body workshops, drawing, mandala meditations, and on and on. That was in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and the Guild constantly ran the risk of being called ‘weird.’ (Thank you, Vicki.)

Actually, this fusion had great significance. For one thing, the diverse offerings, like an enormous smorgasbord, beckons to be tried, even though there are women who each year announce ahead of time that they are really only coming for one particular thing, i.e., writing children’s books, or book proposals, or learning how to market. Yet, they are the ones who within 24 hours can be seen in the yoga workshop, or trying themselves out with three-ball juggling, or making dolls. Something within themselves leads them to what they never tried before and never thought they would ever do. Led by their own free will towards balance—to fill in gaps and to not replay the same old tapes. And this brings renewal. Like springtime. The water flows and there is joy.

And sometimes the water flows from great pain, and out of the depth of the soul comes a convulsive wail. The soul has opened and has said: This is where it hurts, this is what I’ve kept hidden. I can’t hide it anymore.

As I said in one of my essays: “The Guild provides a haven for the lancing of old wounds—without therapy and without loathsome pity. When something painful comes up in our workshops or during the Open Readings at our conferences, we form a mindful circle of supportive witnesses. All of us have been there and if some have yet to gather up the courage to speak, that other woman’s breakthrough, that other woman’s courage, helps to ready each of us to do the same for ourselves. And this makes for bonding. This makes for community—a community based on shared experience.

“No doubt, this is our version of the fraternal bonding of men. We women birth and rebirth each other in a supportive and mindful circle. Paradoxically, the Guild is also for those of us who have never really bonded; those of us who are not joiners, myself included. That’s a paradox. The Guild enjoys the nature of paradox. The Guild enjoys combining unmatched parts.”

Going back to the subject of pain, it continues to amaze how much pain human beings carry around. Even when there is no war, or famine, or political tyranny—the personal pain from abuse in a country that has been founded “on the pursuit of happiness” is overwhelming.

Which brings me to the subject of advocacy. It is not an overstatement to say that there is hardly a woman, generally speaking, and certainly specifically in the Guild, who is not practicing some form of social advocacy. Women care about what is right and true, even if it concerns only our immediate families. But, when the writing practice takes hold, awareness is enlarged, relationships are recognized that were not seen before. The circle expands wider as perceptions are increased through writing. In other words, women, particularly writing women, cannot help but care about what is going on around them.

And what follows immediately, of course, is the question: How does one advocate without polarizing? How does one announce one is for something without going against something else? More particularly, how does a writing woman face social inequities; how does she deal with wrong doings, specifically those which have been done to her personally? Certainly, in the realm of fiction, she can depict characters and scenes and lead to inevitabilities as her characters interweave with plot.

Or, as the Bard said so well in As You Like It:All the world’s a stage.

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances. …

But, from a Guild point of view, what I am asking is: “How does a woman writer deal with her own entrances and exits on this stage called life? And with her growing awareness of that stage and the role she plays upon it as a person who happens to write?
Or, is her being a good writer enough? Who hasn’t heard the argument about great artists who should be exempt from being good persons since their gifts exonerate them from the judgment of ordinary mortals?

But—.

As women, we sense that cruelty, wars, and personal abuse cannot be eliminated unless each person recognizes the rage that lies within. The Guild’s silent premise imbues the writing process over and above technique, craft, theme, style and presentation with the writer’s willingness to probe and transform herself.

Her art and her being are one.

When Muriel Rukeyser asked: “What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?”