I attended a writing group for the first time tonight. Write Now.
We met in a co-working space I'd heard about from a friend a long time ago. But I never had an invitation nor a reason to go it. It seemed like such a big-city thing to have nearby, let alone to own: a co-working space. And here it is, absolutely gorgeous. It's a well-lit section of old brick warehouse in the downtown. Updated air ducts, wiring, windows. Lots of tables all equipped with wheely chairs, lamps, and outlets. There is an astonishing number of green plants when you first walk in. All the sunlight comes through eight glass doors on one side of the building, and if it weren't night, I can imagine being overwhelmed by the unfiltered light. But of course, anything to distract me from my work. What is it tonight?
One, Jake said we need to feed the children less ice cream. Have I made a mistake in giving them too much? Haven't I said that recently, too? It feels to me that he is saying, "When you're on with the kids again, it's up to you to give them less ice cream. But because it's easier, I am going to capitulate tonight." Not sure if this is true. But I don't give him much room when he offers an improvement. I hate criticism. I hate the whiff of it.
Two, everyone in this room is a writer. How intimidating! It makes me want to be a writer, too. I want to hear how they talk about process. I want to hear how they move their ideas forward. Most of all, I want to know what compels them to write. Why am I not writing more often? What would it be about, anyway?
Three, rain tonight. I wonder if it will be enough to pull us out of this drought. October saw only sunny days. It was beautiful. It occurs to me that watching news is very much like looking at the weather forecast. Not much you can do about the events. You can decide what you're going to wear, to an extent. You can make indoor plans as opposed to outdoor plans. You can call your local weather station, but it won't change the weather. That's how big issues in the news feel to me: they might as well be the weather.
The gathering begins at 7 PM. People are all seated as I arrive, but I don't feel intrusive in this social atmosphere. Jamie comes over to me, rightly guessing that I was a bit lost. Sign in, get a snack, sit anywhere, and in a few minutes she'll call attention for introductions. Around 7:20, Jamie calls attention: she directs us as we go around the room and say our names and what we're working on. She says if you want to be asked about it later, we'll ask you, but otherwise, we won't. There are 23 of us scattered about the tables, with three working in a loft behind me. I am sitting with a fascinating woman with gray hair pulled back with barrettes. During the introductions, she mentions that she's working on some non-fiction about the stained glass in a local church, but before this, it was always non-fiction, but classified, so no one is ever allowed to read it. It turns out, she worked for the CIA. I asked if she was proud of the work she did. She is. She was there through the beginning of the Biden administration.
The writers here write mostly fiction. I am astounded by how much fiction is in the world. And I am called even now to the fiction I am reading. I want to know what happens. I want to get to the good parts. There are a few people who write non-fiction. All in the more advanced age group, I notice. One man is a food and travel writer. One person writes poetry and non-fiction. Two or three write memoirs. Several people are published. Some are self-published. A few are students at local universities or trade schools, and one of these is writing songs tonight. Inaudibly.
Am I in the right place?
One thing seems certain. It's going to take me many hours and days of writing to ever come out of this... this... I wanted to say "funk," but I believe I mean stage of life. Motherhood. Why couldn't I do one thing I wanted to do? I wanted to work for World Relief and answer emails. Instead, I found myself barely opening my computer. On the occasions when I wasn't on with at least one kid, there was work to be done in my house. Work that needed doing. Has it been a lack of discipline all along? Can I blame Jake? I do blame him, a bit. But mostly I've just been too damn tired. And writing isn't breathing for me. Writing is nice. Writing is an old friend. Writing is the wise mentor I long to ask my questions to. But I'd rather sleep. I'd just rather sleep.