Have you ever wondered what happens in 'Writing Groups'? Yeah, you know you have......so did I, at least the occurrences in random meet ups with strangers. I was genuinely interested, so, what do we DO with interested minds? We indulge them. So I have started going to a writing group here in Austin and it is pretty sensational. It isn't just the allure of talking about writing styles for two plus hours, but it is being exposed to a certain KIND of person.
Now, some of us hide our artsy interior better than others; I for one own a dismal amount of tight pants and battered instruments. Instead, I hide behind my bubbly exterior, secretly enjoying that the artistic community may find me to be an absolute bore when it comes to looks. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I can wear my feathered earrings or Thai dress, and my hair does have that out-of-control curl thing happening, but overall I scream Kindergarten teacher more than free- verse voyeur.
That is what I like about the meet ups. They are pretentious, but in a "prove it" kind of way. No one is in awe that you can write, they are there to make you better. They can't be too hotty if they are meeting with us nobodies, because if you're really good, you've got print on your fingers from your last publication.
So, we meet at Dominican Joe's which has such a pleasant atmosphere I would consider giving birth on the bottom level, should the occasion arise. People scatter in, one by one, and I of course come up guilty of judging. But, right away I like them. There is one girl, blond with small pointed features and a conservative black dress, that I secretly think may be here because she wants to exchange cookie recipes. As I think this, she introduces herself and says, rather blase, she writes erotica. I am pleased by it, by people knocking me off my lovely horse, and I remember why writers are such an amazingly diverse crew.
We are everywhere, don't you worry, sitting next to you at work, sleuthing in the park for that one clue that will finish our character's personality. And we steal, OH HOW WE STEAL! You don't want to meet me, because I will take your name, your mannerisms, and maybe even your deepest darkest fears. I will gather them from the scrapyard of your life, and start building a lopsided house that faces west and gathers sunlight in the evenings. You may see a dark piece of you past nailed to my roof, keeping the rain from coming in. How else do you expect us to find enough parts to build the edifices of our imaginations?
After the introductions, I pulled out my newly revised poem, "Exodus" and timidly place it on the table. The erotica girl smiles and puts a stack of papers down, too. This, I think, is going to be interesting. The last person to contribute is this amazing woman with corn-roes in her hair that look like fabulous little wrenches coming out of her head. She is boisterous and published already, and of course her resume includes being a poet in residence as well as a coordinator for the Austin Women's Festival. Instantly, I am intrigued and embedded in her fabulously crafted self.
So we start reading, and I find that the erotica pages are turning themselves. The writing is so honest, so free, and frankly I feel like a cave woman that has been living under a big rock labeled "PRUDE". But hey, I am still young, right?
The writing, all of it, is amazing. The poems from Ms. Fabulous are sexy and violent while also bewitchingly insecure. The erotica piece from the teacher lady, has not only proved to be informative but it has also caused our group to unite in a way only overt sexual awkwardness can do. We go over each of the works, mine first, and everyone gives their comments with a level of professionalism and emotion. Then, Bam, I am getting complimented and I feel like maybe I can hang with these cats. I swear their is an abusive boyfriend in me that keeps whispering, "What are you doing here? You can't write like THEY can! Look at her hair, and the way she dresses, you are out of your league country bumpkin." Usually, I find a large, sharp object to whack him over the head with, but sometimes he makes me feel genuinely plain, like a white t-shirt at a craft store you buy for $6 because come on, everyone knows there must be something MORE you can do with the pathetic rag. I guess if you're gonna be plain, you want to be Banana Republic plain, at least.
And we digress, as writers do, when the editing is over and we have discovered that the erotica author is writing about her own REAL LIFE experiences. Somehow we are all in deep discussion about what kind of narrator is best to explain the innovative acts within a sex party. Sometimes, people add in too much of their own personal desired, and I secretly note that I do not want to do that quite yet. Then, Ms. Fabulous starts talking, and I am in rapt attention. She is so exciting and passionate that I want to roll her down a hill just to watch the grass light on fire. We talk about women's rights, of course, and of course a poetic gal with cropped hair chimes in, and I forget the poor men in the group. Of course, I guess that is the price you pay being around a poetess, most of them use men as catalysts to an experiment, not someone they actually go over their data with.
Finally, I look at my watch and realize it is probably time to go. The married guy next to me looks eager to leave, but I can tell he is too nice to jump up. I start to shake my keys, the leaving dance, and finally find an opening and we leave together. I wonder if he will come back next time, if any of the new guys will, and I unlock my car.
As I'm driving I wonder why I always want to leave things. Why, when it is still good, to I feel like time won't permit any more. I am UNEMPLOYED and yet I felt like I had "things to do" at home. I guess that is our sick little tendency to not overstay our welcome. Besides, it is always good to keep people wanting, right? No one wants to be the writer that was all talk and no prose.
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