Night of Songs and Stories
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The third Tuesday of each month, the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild sponsors a Night of Songs and Stories. The evening features original readings (300 words or fewer) by Guild members and music by local musicians, Stuart Vining & Amy Felker.
Each month a theme is posted (previous examples include “escape,” “blue or blues,” and “play as in fun or theater” ) and both the writers and musicians write/perform pieces that in some way connect to this theme. A variation of this is when the featured musicians post the titles of five songs that they will perform, with readers signing up to write a short poem, essay, or story that somehow incorporates the song’s title or lyrics into their piece. |
September SponsorDelaware Division of the Arts This event is made possible by a fellowship grant awarded to Sarah Barnett from the Delaware Division of the Arts. Sponsoring
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Next Night of Songs and StoriesSep 21 (Third Tue of the month)
Shrimpy's Bar & Grill, Midway 7-8:15p Cover charge at door: $5 members; $7 non-members September Night of Songs and Stories will not be our traditional themed event featuring various readers, but will instead highlight Delaware Division of the Arts fellowship recipient, Sarah Barnett reading her essay, “What Are You Writing About,” interspersed with songs from Stuart and Amy and with guest appearances from Tom Hoyer, Lora Mckenna, and Joanne Sinsheimer. Covid. At this time, we are not requesting vaccination status or requiring masks at Guild events though we encourage participants to wear masks if they are comfortable doing so. We also understand some may opt to skip events in the short term, and though we'll miss you, we respect and understand this choice, as well. We will follow any additional restrictions imposed by the governor and update our newsletter and website accordingly. For up-to-date info, you can find CDC guidelines here and Governor Carney's announcements here. Sign Up to Attend Please RSVP to attend via SignUpGenius. If you sign up and can't attend, please delete your name from the list. If the sign-up sheet is full... ...please keep checking to see if spaces open up. In addition, email Kim Burnett, rbwgevents@gmail.com, who will keep track of the waitlist in an effort to make sure that those on the waitlist one month are offered a seat the next month. SignUp Genius How To Click the link above.
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Sponsor a Night of Songs and Stories for $250. This covers most of the costs for the musicians and our sound guy, so it’s enormously helpful and we are very appreciative. In return for the sponsorship, we will put a blurb in our weekly email (sent to more than 700 people), on our website, on Facebook, and on the program the day of the event naming the sponsors as well as what or who they are honoring with the sponsorship. Some have sponsored in honor and support of the Guild, as a way to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary, or promote a business. Others have sponsored as a way to promote a charity or organization that matters. Our only request is that religion and politics not be a part of these events. At the reading, Maribeth will publicly thank the sponsor. Sponsors may place a brochure or flyer or single sheet of information at each place setting. Sponsors still pay the cover fee at the door for themselves and guests. While we do everything we can to accommodate the sponsor and make them not only feel special but know how grateful we are, we don’t change the reading or the actual show beyond giving the sponsors who are Guild members the opportunity to read at that event and the opportunity to go either first or last in the line-up. Sponsors still need to RSVP for guests and if the event is full, we’ll move those guests to the top of the waitlist, but can’t promise a seat, so it is best to let Maribeth know about your plan to sponsor as far in advance as possible. Contact Maribeth at fischer.maribeth@gmail.com to sponsor a Night of Songs and Stories. |
Past Reader
Art, Capital A
By Maribeth Fischer
At the Edward Hopper Exhibit in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, I stepped too close to a painting, and a security guard swept forward, pointing to the line on the floor I’d crossed. Immediately shame flooded me, overwhelming, ridiculous, out-of-proportion shame. Even then I knew: this wasn’t really about getting too close to a painting.
I come from Artists—my grandmother’s watercolors hang in museums. My mother was a classical pianist. In our house stood a grand piano, harpsichord, and clavicord. My older brother, at age 8, received as his favorite Christmas present—a bust of Beethoven. For fun, this same brother, would don a suit, play a Beethoven record, stand on a chair and wave a knitting needle in the air, “conducting.” He charged us admission (Monopoly money) to watch. My younger brother played violin at age 3 and would become a renowned composer. Me? I ran cross country. Bus rides singing “We are the Champions,” and ten-mile runs, leaping over fallen trees, splashing through puddles. At home, I felt estranged. Art—capital A—meant certain things: Beethoven, not rock music; curated paintings, not drawings of runners.
Still, I attended Rhode Island School of Design, hoping I’d find artists I belonged with. Instead, I didn’t belong in a whole new way. Pierced tongues, shaved heads, wild scrawls of charcoal across newsprint—I wasn’t cool enough, ironic enough, bold enough, or just enough. I’d never fit in, though God knows I tried. Later, decades in academia. Art was Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner not Stephen King, whose work I once taught in a writing class and was reprimanded for.
And so my shame at the Hopper exhibit—a reminder, perhaps, of how Art—capital A—had made me feel less-than, and wrong. No wonder when it comes to my writing, my art, it’s the afternoons of cross-country that I consider my greatest influence. Veering from the known path, leaping over obstacles, running with all my heart—to cross that finish line.
By Maribeth Fischer
At the Edward Hopper Exhibit in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, I stepped too close to a painting, and a security guard swept forward, pointing to the line on the floor I’d crossed. Immediately shame flooded me, overwhelming, ridiculous, out-of-proportion shame. Even then I knew: this wasn’t really about getting too close to a painting.
I come from Artists—my grandmother’s watercolors hang in museums. My mother was a classical pianist. In our house stood a grand piano, harpsichord, and clavicord. My older brother, at age 8, received as his favorite Christmas present—a bust of Beethoven. For fun, this same brother, would don a suit, play a Beethoven record, stand on a chair and wave a knitting needle in the air, “conducting.” He charged us admission (Monopoly money) to watch. My younger brother played violin at age 3 and would become a renowned composer. Me? I ran cross country. Bus rides singing “We are the Champions,” and ten-mile runs, leaping over fallen trees, splashing through puddles. At home, I felt estranged. Art—capital A—meant certain things: Beethoven, not rock music; curated paintings, not drawings of runners.
Still, I attended Rhode Island School of Design, hoping I’d find artists I belonged with. Instead, I didn’t belong in a whole new way. Pierced tongues, shaved heads, wild scrawls of charcoal across newsprint—I wasn’t cool enough, ironic enough, bold enough, or just enough. I’d never fit in, though God knows I tried. Later, decades in academia. Art was Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner not Stephen King, whose work I once taught in a writing class and was reprimanded for.
And so my shame at the Hopper exhibit—a reminder, perhaps, of how Art—capital A—had made me feel less-than, and wrong. No wonder when it comes to my writing, my art, it’s the afternoons of cross-country that I consider my greatest influence. Veering from the known path, leaping over obstacles, running with all my heart—to cross that finish line.
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