It finally happened. I joined a group. You might not think this is odd, probably because you are somewhere further toward extravert on the introversion-extraversion spectrum. I am an extreme introvert, therefore I rarely join groups. And if I do, I endeavor to remain on the fringe, preferably near the door, so I can bolt back to solitude at anytime.
My sister suggested I need to make friends in my new town. I always listen to my sister’s advice. Thus, on Friday evening, I joined a writer’s group.
At 4:00 p.m. I walked from my apartment to the local library. Before I left, I checked the sky. Cloudy. I hoped the rain would hold off for a couple more hours, but it’s the Willamette Valley: You never know. However, I chose to carry my mother’s cane instead of my umbrella: I knew it would be dark when I walked back, and I figured keeping my balance over uneven sidewalks would be more important than staying dry. It was one or the other, I couldn’t carry both.
I got to the library early, as is my wont, and after a few minutes, a woman arrived and entered the conference room. I followed and introduced myself to Vicki, the leader of the group. She was friendly and welcoming. Later, after I found out her last name, I looked her up. She seems to be a prominent member in the local nonprofit world but I couldn’t find an author website.
Soon other writers arrived, until there were seven of us. We sat in cheap wheeled office chairs around an oval conference room table. People introduced themselves by their first names and reported their writing genres. Science fiction/fantasy, poetry, slice of life, and me, cozy fantasy. Although to be honest, my first book wasn’t all that cozy, and I don’t think my new project will be terribly cozy either. But that is another blogpost.
Anyway, the assignment was to come up with five words as a prompt to write for twenty minutes. Breakable, inevitable, levitation, hope, and my contribution, tornado (or some variation on those words). I had brought a lined journal in anticipation of taking notes, so I was ready. Vicki set a timer, and we got busy writing. Three people had laptops, one of which failed at the outset, much to the vocal dismay of the laptop owner, so most of us wrote on paper.
Twenty minutes later, we stopped writing and started sharing. Vicki chose the person to my left, going clockwise, so I was last.
It quickly became clear that (a) I was not a terrible writer, and (b) everyone wrote significantly more words than I did. While I spent the twenty minutes paring the five words into a concise, tight, minimal paragraph, they were writing pages of somewhat aimless ramblings (that’s my opinion as a listener). Good news for me, though. Apparently, conciseness is not a requirement. (So noted for the next meeting.)
One of the poets wrote a poem—no big surprise. The other poet wrote a description of something that happened to her, I guess a slice of her life. The guy to my left wrote some kind of quasi-philosophical self-reflection. The fantasy writer across the table (who teaches math and science at the local high school) wrote something about magic, levitating elves, and forests (I can’t remember details, sorry, I’m not an audio learner). The woman with the dead laptop wrote about her chickens. Vicki wrote a scene from her current project, a science fiction novel. (The legs of the landing craft stirred up small tornadoes.)
Not realizing the assignment was about maximizing quantity over quality, I wrote what I thought was a smart witty little gem:
When the tornado ripped off the roof, I knew I was in trouble. I thought my best hope was to cast a levitation spell, but the magic was slow to rise. I sighed. Breakage was now inevitable.
Yep. That took me the entire twenty minutes.
After that, only Vicki had something to read to the group, so she proceeded to regale us with the ongoing story of outerspace miners coping with life on a spinning asteroid. A husband and wife leadership team showed some lovey-dovey, and then the captain got to work on the day’s dilemma: Who could she hire to deliver their next shipment of water?
I drew pictures in my journal to stay present while she read in a flat tone. To be honest, even if she had read with some excitement, there would have been nothing much to get excited about. I could not discern any real conflict. No envy that the wife was the captain, not the husband. No fear that the station might run out of water. Not even much worry about how a supply ship would deliver supplies to a spinning, tumbling asteroid. As bored as I was, I was relieved that my writing was no worse than hers.
My conclusions: (a) She needs an editor, and (b)I’m going to fit in well with this group. If it’s not snowing, I plan to return next week.