Writer’s Group
October 6, 2004
LB started a writer's group. The group has had three meetings, and I've attended twice. Last night was the second. The group is a mix of aspiring writers with varying levels of experience. At the last meeting, before I was introduced to anyone, LB asked if she could mention my blog. She thought it might interest some other members.
"No," I told her. "What if I want to write about this?"
As it turns out, it's already slipped out to a few people, so I'll keep my descriptions brief.
My friend Lynn was there. She works for a young adult publishing house brainstorming storylines for adolescent novels. LB stays busy with various editing and writing assignments for books and magazines. One woman is a former English teacher. One guy writes instruction manuals for who knows what. There's a girl from Miami working on a novel about a Cuban refugee, and a British guy working on one about pirates. There’s a guy from Milwaukee with a faux hawk who was at the last meeting but wasn't there this week. Like I said, a mix of people. Everyone sat in a circle on different chairs: big red cushy ones, sturdy wooden chairs, and hard metal folding chairs. I sat on the couch next to Lynn, in front of the snacks.
Once everyone was settled, LB announced she would start us off with a short writing exercise.
Just like in high school, I had to borrow school supplies from my neighbor. "Psst, Lynn," I whispered, "Do you have an extra piece of paper?"
She shook her head and laughed. "Here, I'll give you two," she said, tearing out a couple of sheets from her spiral notebook.
Who goes to a writer's group without something to write on? Of course, it’s me.
LB read a random sentence from a book that we were supposed to write down and use as the first sentence of our story—or as much of a story as we could manage in ten minutes. Ten minutes? Ugh. Damn. Pressure.
"Okay, is everyone ready? Here's the sentence:
Only when the girls reached the bottom did the boys realize they didn't know who was taking whom.
I scribbled a messy, jumbled bit of nonsense in my chicken scratch, crossing out dead-end sentences, writing tiny shorthand notes in the margins. Arrows pointed in different directions. Dull descriptions and uninspired metaphors. My pen even ran out of ink, but that was the least of my excuses.
"Okay, time’s up.”
We were then expected to read our stories aloud. Oh man. This really is like high school.
One by one, around the room, we went. Each story was as good as, or better than, the one before it. How the hell did these people come up with such vivid, detailed, and long stories? Okay, my turn. I mumbled my way through mine, then sliced off a hunk of cheese, placed it on a cracker, and slumped into the couch. After everyone had read their stories and I'd compared mine to the rest of the group, I clicked my pen and drew a big, fat "F" on the top of my page.
October 26, 2004
There's a writer's group meeting tonight. We were supposed to be discussing the pirate adventure that was passed around at the last meeting, but the British bloke who wrote it can't make it. LB has called upon me to pick up the slack by reading a few pages from my own book. Even though Lynn has assured me that what I've written is good, and has even offered a poke in the eye to anyone who says otherwise, I'm still nervous. Not so much about my story, but about standing in front of the group and reading it aloud. For one thing, everyone is going to be disappointed that we're not discussing pirates. I mean, seriously, swashbuckling adventures are a hard act to follow, let alone replace. Common pirate savvy tells us so.
October 27, 2004
The writer's group started with members reading their "homework assignments." We'd been given an exercise to write a short Halloween story. Although an assignment like that may have lent itself to tales of blood, gore, and horror, everyone went the innocent little kid route instead.
We went around the room, and those who chose to shared their charming tales of children and childhood. I didn't read mine for the simple reason that I didn't write one. That was okay, though, because when everyone had finished, I was set to read several pages from my book. "Okay," I said, passing around the copies I'd made. "After those sweet little tales of childhood innocence, you get to read along with my filth." But, by cutting my pages short--at the point where PG-13 began to turn NC-17--I'd grossly underestimated, not only everyone’s tolerance for filth, but their downright thirst for it.
"Aw, man," the lanky brunette on the other side of the room said with frustration. "I wanna hear what happens."
If she really wants to hear the salacious details, she'll have to buy the book. That is, if I ever manage to sell the little fucker. After the meeting, I got cornered by the youngest member of the group. He pulled a refrigerator magnet from his pocket and asked if I wanted it. It was a miniature poster for the movie Casablanca. Earlier in the night, he'd commented on my writing--saying that it was a little schizophrenic. Half of it was dreamlike and poetic, while the other half was prosaic, with a somewhat "film noir" flavor. Direct and masculine. He could picture the lines being delivered by Humphrey Bogart. So I guess the refrigerator magnet was meant to have some symbolism. "No thanks," I laughed, still a little confused about the Humphrey Bogart comparison.
"I got it from my boss," he said, stuffing the magnet back into the pocket of his filthy Army coat. "People send him all sorts of crazy knick-knacks like this."
Turns out the kid works for the grandson of Jack Warner. "Jack who?" I asked. "You don't know who Jack Warner is?" he said with thinly veiled condescension.
"Warner Brothers?" I guessed.
"Yes. Of course."
"So what does Jack Warner's grandson do?"
"He does everything. Writes, directs, produces—"
"I see. A jerk of all trades, so to speak."
"He's not a jerk."
“Oh, sorry. I was thinking of me.”
