Sunflower

Why I Do Not Belong to a Writing Group

I have belonged to exactly two writing groups in my life, and I have been writing since elementary school (a Star Wars fanfic and a largely plagiarized book on astronomy).

 The first was in college. I took a creative writing class with Wendy Barker . She had a fanatical following among many of her creative writing students, but I found the class off-putting and I was not the only one. I’m not going to defend anything I wrote and shared during those painful meetings, but I had a friend who wrote a gripping story about a woman who had an abortion (it was a thinly veiled account of her own experiences) and I remember the complete disinterest that the acolytes showed for it.  I must admit also that I was not impressed by Dr. Barker. My one clear memory of her was sitting in the hallway outside her office having shown up for a scheduled meeting with her and waiting for 30 minutes or so while she and an acolyte shot the bull in her office, door open and aware that I was waiting. In short, I never heard any genuinely useful feedback in that class. That and the poetry voice that many of the students used when reading their work convinced me I was not in the right place. 

You know the poetry voice. It’s the voice that strives … with highly artful … inflection … a rising tone … and meaningless … pauses … to imbue ordinary thoughts … with great … philosophical … depth. I hate it. It’s so false and, ironically, robs words of their power. It cheapens honest emotion. The poetry voice is a major reason why I avoid public readings and writers’ groups. 

The second writing group I was in was the San AntonioWriting Project . This was, overall, a much better experience, but the focus here was making us into better teachers of writing. And, honestly, I found the experience very uncomfortable because I do not like reading my work out loud in a group setting.  And that’s on me. On several occasions I was asked to reread something more slowly and louder because I had been in a mad rush to get it over with.  I did get good feedback, honest critique, from some of my fellow participants, and I loved having a designated time in which to write. It made me produce which was good because I am a lazy writer much of the time.

I guess, in a sense, I’ve been a member of another writers’ group. As a fanfiction  writer (former fanfiction writer?) and a beta reader I have gotten much better feedback from fellow writers than I ever did face to face.  The brutal honesty of some of my fandom friends and the knowledge that they had gone through my writing line by line really did improve my process and my output.  This group has the added benefits of being online and asynchronous so it wasn’t a matter of setting aside a particular time to meet. And I never have to read my work out loud to anyone. The only downside is that this group really only functions well when it comes to fanfiction.  Many of us write original fiction but, at least for me, it’s more difficult to put the original fic out there and have it go through that rigorous process.

I have tried a few times since then to start a writing group, but people are busy, people are probably afraid I’ll read with the poetry voice, people are shy, and people just aren’t interested.

 And I have toyed with the idea of joining an existing writers’ group … but I have so many trust issues when it comes to opening my inner self up to other people. I am a very private person when it comes to the things that matter most to me.  My writing is intensely personal, probably the most honest expression of who I imagine myself to be. The idea of sharing that with a random group of strangers makes me feel sick. So, no, I probably won’t be joining a preexisting writing group.

The Subject Today is Love

The Saturday before Christmas, my partner and our friend Gudrun and I had a great day. We ran errands, ate lunch out, and came home to bake Christmas cookies and listen to silly Christmas music. It was a warm day, so we had the backdoor open with the screen door shut and we could see the dogs looking at us every now and then as they heard us or smelled our baking. As daylight turned to dusk, I went into the backyard to give the dogs their dinners and Scooter, the older dog, was lying completely still.

To be honest, I knew immediately that he was gone. But I went over and stooped to pet him, to make sure he wasn’t just asleep. But he was dead. When I petted him, it was obvious that he had just died. He lay there as if he had gone to sleep. 

He wasn’t terribly old, but he was a huge dog and he had had fairly major medical problems his entire life. Lately he had really slowed down and, even though he still ate his dinner and welcomed attention, it was obvious that his medicine for joint problems wasn’t strong enough anymore. We had decided that after Christmas we were going to take him to the vet, and I think we both were steeling ourselves to be told that it was time to let him go.

I went and got my partner to let her know.  The little dog followed me, confused and starting to be upset at this change in the routine. I won’t go into the whole story, but it took a while for us to figure out what to do. Gudrun was the one who called the vet’s emergency number and found a 24 hour vet clinic that could take his body for cremation.

It took all three of us to carry him to the car. Gudrun volunteered her car because it was the largest and drove us there. She hugged me when I started to cry (several times). She was the support we both needed at that time, when we were so upset and not able to think clearly. I’ve always known she was a good friend and, once again, she proved it that night. 

Foe several days the little dog looked for Scooter all the time. He cried. He didn’t eat. He clung to me. But gradually, with lots of attention and encouragement, he has started to get used to this new world. 

Scooter knew how to shake hands. He had beautiful white teeth. He loved to have his belly rubbed. He howled whenever there were sirens nearby. He was gentle and sweet but very imposing-looking. His paws were bigger than the palms of my hands. When he was younger I took him to the vet every Saturday for treatment for mange.  He was a tiny puppy when we got him and I could carry him around, and then he got so big that his head was as big as his whole body used to be. When he was crated, he barked the house down. He loved water and loved getting in his water trough and having water poured over him. We called him Fly Boy because he attracted flies and was always having to wear anti-fly medicine. He was a beautiful, beautiful dog. 

Ever since he died, we find ourselves telling Scooter stories. We tell stories the same way we tell stories about human family members who have died. 

To me, love is not an abstract thing. It's something you do. It's service to those you love and who love you.