When I first moved down here in 1993 to be with the woman who would eventually become The Missus, among the things that excited me (as opposed to the things I dreaded) was her writing circle.
At the time, she was enrolled in a graduate creative-writing program. She had met numerous other writers through that program, of course, including two, Andrea and Donna, who would be her best friends for years afterwards. The Donna connection led to Clark, her S.O., who was also a writer (but not in the creative-writing program). Between one thing and another, then, I found myself — previously more or less alone in my writing, save for online friends — abruptly part of a small group whose members both loved writing and liked (eventually loved) one another.
It was an interesting mix. Andrea and Donna were both poets; in addition, Andrea wrote short stories, and Donna also wrote creative non-fiction and litcrit. Clark wrote horror and SF. The Missus, in her eyes, was “just” a fiction writer, but surprised herself (although not the rest of us) by writing killer poetry, too. And I wrote, uh, well, whatever it was — mostly fiction.
Everybody didn’t have something to workshop at each of our biweekly sessions, of course. Whoever was up next would have already distributed the story, poem, or whatever to the other members of the group. So we’d come armed with marked-up printouts — on the last page, always a paragraph or two of summary. The way it worked was that the writer of a given piece would sit there and just listen, not engage in back-and-forth, as all four readers gave their critiques. Then the writer could say whatever was on his/her mind. And then we’d do another writer’s work.
And then we’d have the rest of the evening to “socialize.” In my mind’s eye, although I know for certain that we shared meals on many of these occasions, what I really see is not food — not even drink (which there was always plenty of, too) — but the laughing faces and eyes of those four other people.
The Missus and I were talking about those times the other day — particularly about a debate she’d had with Clark about the movie The Piano. The exact nature of the debate (who took which side, pro or con, and what was the evidence mounted in each camp) isn’t important here. What’s important is the exquisite sense which just talking about it brought back to both of us, a sense of “what a time it was,” as Paul Simon sang. (To which Gus McRae, of Lonesome Dove, would add in the same spirit, “It was sooooome party, wasn’t it?”)
Over the years, other commitments called. A couple new members came in for a while, drifted away. And then things just sort of… evaporated. The Missus and I are still here but others have gone on to their own elsewheres (one of our original group even leaving the world altogether). Maybe this is the way such things always go. I don’t know, ’cause I sure hadn’t had such a thing before — and haven’t since.
Funny how much you can so quickly and profoundly become dependent on others — good others — not just for their help with your profession and craft, but for care and feeding of your soul. Luckily, in The Missus I’m still blessed with those.
But even after… after what is it? nine years? — yes, even now not a day goes by that I don’t see the faces of all four of them in my head: their laughter, their pulsating impatience as they waited for everyone else to finish so they could just explain what they meant, their knitted brows, and yeah, again: their laughter.
“their pulsating impatience as they waited for everyone else to finish so they could just explain what they meant”
I always loved seeing people get like that in my undergrad workshops. When it was my story in question, it made me feel as though I’d done something especially cool that people wanted to talk about.
Better to have had a great writing group and lost it, than to never have known other writers at all. Or something like that.
You are lucky! My writing group has failed, and it never got as far as I’d hoped. Yours sounds lovely and may you be so lucky again.
Oh, and by the by, I could NEVER be in a writing group with my, um, Mister. He doesn’t even read my work. He reads the blog, but almost never says anything about it. And when he does say something, it isn’t say whether or not he likes it.
@Jolie – Yeah, I felt that way too. Right up to the moment when I realized I could apply the description to my own response as well as to everybody else’s. :)
@marta – Well there you go: spoiling my rotten mood by pointing out, accurately, how lucky I am. Ha! Seriously, I do know the situation was unusual and very unlikely to be repeated. I’ve talked to other writers in the area who describe their own workshops, many of which have been intense and highly effective. But none of them seem to have the same personal spark… Maybe it’s just that I was fairly newly arrived and was looking for the social aspect (though I’m not an especially social creature).
reCaptcha seems vaguely political-slash-ominous: “banking may.”
“it made me feel as though I’d done something especially cool that people wanted to talk about.” So true Jolie!
I’ll never forget the first time someone talked about a character in my novel as if she were a “real” person. Having someone take my work seriously startled me so much! But mostly, I’ve avoided any groups or sharing my work much since my college creative writing classes days- the critiques then were too often snarky and made for effect by young writers who really ( I realize now) didn’t know what they were talking about, and it made me self-protective of my work as a result…
@Sarah – the critiques then were too often snarky and made for effect
Yeah. I took exactly one creative-writing class in college, and I remember those critiques. And The Missus’s stories about grad-level classes confirm it. (Sometimes the snark even originated with the instructor.) That’s another thing I was lucky about — workshopping with people who were friends, rigorous critiquers (in their own ways), and utterly not in competition with one another.
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