Way back when, I was in a writers group with some friends of mine.
This was before two of them went on to get their MFA's and one went
on to become a successful writer (= her books make enough money for
her to support her family on royalties) and I went on to
become...someone who has yet to become anything in particular.
Inspired by the knowledge that we were in for some serious razzing if
we were to show up at a meeting with nothing to share, each of us
wrote more prolifically than we otherwise would have, and – if I do
say so – some of it was halfway decent. We were all English majors,
well versed in textual analysis, and I think we batted around some
good ideas during feedback sessions, too.
But I am pretty sure I'm speaking for all of us when I say that what
we did in our group meetings did very little, if anything, to improve
the quality of our writing.
Writers groups are useful if what you want is an excuse to socialize
with people who are going to know what you mean when you say you're
having trouble with your hook (hint: it has nothing to do with tennis
elbow). Writers groups are great for providing a sense of solidarity.
And they're a needed kick in the pants for those of us who tend to
drift off the page & into reveries about the epic novel cycle
we're going to write – just as soon as we win the lottery and buy
that adorable writing retreat in the Adirondacks.
In other words, I guess writers groups aren't a complete waste
of time.
Which is one reason why I recently accepted an invitation to join –
or at least check out – a local writers group. The other reason
is that, being new to Portland, I'm not above joining such a group
just on the off chance that I might make some new friends that way.
I had no idea what to expect, since I was acquainted (barely!) with
only one member of the group, and had never so much as laid eyes on
anyone else in it.
On Sunday evening, I was let into a stranger's living room and
introduced around. The other writers were friendly, bright,
articulate, and hip. They were also...kids.
I'm 37. Not old, in other words. But I felt simply ancient in
comparison to the other writers assembled in that living room. I'm
guessing that only one of them had even hit 30, and as it happens,
that one still lives with his mother. With my 18-year marriage and my
two kids, not to mention my many years of freelance editing and
teaching composition, I was automatically accorded a certain respect:
hey, I might be a random from off the streets, but I obviously spoke
with the Voice of Experience.
It was hard not to feel like I was back in the classroom.
Maybe that's why I felt compelled to point out the dangling modifiers
in two of their manuscripts.
Oddly, despite my behaving like an insufferable know-it-all, when it
came time to say our good-byes, I got several enthusiastic hugs and
comments to the effect that I'd been very helpful. Apparently, I will
be welcomed back if I decide I want to join their future gatherings.
Aye, there's the rub: do I really want to be Den Mother for the (Young)
Writers Group on a regular basis?
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