If you love books, join a book group. If you love writing, join a writing group. To me, a writing group takes critiques to the next level, since it’s your own hide. And to be facing a group of members eager to pounce, that's a necessary stretch for an introvert like me. After years of subscribing to Writer’s Digest, it was time to release my creations into the world. And to my surprise, I’d be receiving not just feedback, but material too.
One fall evening, I sat down at my first writer's group in our public library. Was my imposter syndrome lessened by the fact that public meant anyone without outstanding warrants would be welcome? Unsure. The twenty members on that blustery night dove right in, and we went around the table. I received plenty of feedback, constructive and otherwise. My work improved and my skin grew thick.
Members consisted of homeless writers struggling to stay warm, young college grads, and professionals pursuing their passion. We had two psychiatrists, baring their own souls for a change. We had a foreign national from a literary magazine, who would slide a free copy across the table if he liked you. A mole who published our pieces in religious periodicals, lambasting us before the world for authoring sinful works. A sex offender who had served their time and was starting over as an author. Several talented sci-fi authors attended whose flights of fancy contrasted with their mundane lives. Then there was the Gordon Lish wannabe who picked up my story and tore the first five pages in half, one by one. A fantasy writer read my love story aloud, swapping the genders and adding comic effects. A psychoanalyst donned his bike helmet, then proceeded to lambast my story and question my sanity. A script of mine received an impromptu table read, swapping characters and roles, teaching me produced work is not your own. But either because of, or in spite of ourselves, many of us successfully published articles and books over the years.
Retirement brought me travel opportunities. I stayed in a midwestern city for a summer, and joined the local writing group. It was in a neighborhood that was the most diverse I had ever seen. The neighborhood was full of folks on the street doing their best to make a living, turning the classic structures around the gleaming steel and glass library into gaudy tourist bars and taquerias. This community brought us several members aching to share their messages. My favorite was a young trans person, who wrote a beautiful fantasy story and we bonded over each of us finding a good critic. We had a gentle gay man who wrote sniper thrillers with surprise endings. We had an initially shy woman who chanted a lyrical poem that left us breathless. We had a legally blind author who wrote marvelous stories and critiqued our work when we read it aloud. As fall approached, I was flattered to be asked to be moderator. But it was time for me to move to warmer climates. I had learned that appearance was no way to judge anyone’s talents or abilities.
With meetings now online for health reasons, my experiences continue. I’ve met colorful readers and writers from all over the world. But I am looking forward to meeting in person again, as only in real life do people truly reveal themselves as the characters they are.
--Submission for a 600 word short piece on the writing life.
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