WE ARE, ON THE FACE OF it, about as disparate a bunch as you could shake a fountain pen at. Howard edits a newsletter listing concerts, Lena is obsessed with a (long dead) Italian artist, Justine likes to share her feelings about her weight problem. And then there’s me — me, I’m like Spalding Gray; I too have pages piling up, like the unfinished novel he called his monster in a box.
What has brought us together is a writing group. Everyone talks about reading groups, whether it’s Oprah or Richard and Judy, The Times Books group or their own private one. If one of your new year resolutions is to write, a group can help.
We meet after work, once a week, in a conference room we pay to use, united by a common desire to write, the need for a deadline, the appreciation of feedback from one another.
We’re used to getting together to read, so why not to write? A group means that you don’t have to abandon your life for a year for a creative writing course. It helps you to keep the juices flowing while finding the encouragement and mutual respect that are their own reward.
There are, of course, different ways to do it — how often to meet, how many members there should be. Howard, Lena, Justine, Benjamin (speciality one-act plays and short stories) and I are the core but new members float in and out, sometimes bringing new energy, sometimes supplying less glamorous elements.
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Lena writes every morning before her children get up and before she goes to work. She has written an entire novel this way and is now rewriting and sharing it with us in instalments. We watched her hone an excerpt we suggested could be a short story and then saw her publish it. Her writing is excellent and we have had to work hard to suggest ways of improving it.
Justine began writing to help herself lose weight. It has been difficult for us to listen to stories of her doctor telling her to get weighed at the butcher because she was beyond the range of a normal scale. Her writing was clear, but it seemed repetitive, vague, less writing than therapy. Two things happened. Her writing became increasingly important to her, and she was able to use the feedback of the group to make it more specific. She wrote a chapter about a time when she snuck out to a pastry shop to pig-out between meals, describing various mouthwatering versions of her favourite doughnuts.
Despite her elaborate excuses, her brother found her out and snitched. At dinner, when her mother had cooked meatloaf — which she loved — her father served her a platter of doughnuts instead. It was a moving depiction of a twisted parental lesson and was published in an anthology about overweight teens.
One day Justine appeared with a chilling story of a rape. No one said a word beyond attempting careful critique. There is an unspoken acknowledgement to disconnect from possibly autobiographical material. Are we friends, this group? Not really. But we can bare our hearts and we can experiment with content, form and style without fear of judgment or failure. At its best, the group can provide trust. There is more than one reason why we might not want to share some of our writing with our friends.
Though we have had successes in terms of both publishing and group bonding, we have experienced at least as many moments of disappointment. Sometimes there are only a few people who keep bringing the same kind of work and delivering the same criticisms.
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New people usually revitalise the group, even if it hasn’t always been in a positive way. There was Tatiana the Dominatrix, whose jarring poetry was difficult to comment on, given the subject matter, but who certainly livened up the discussions. We were subjected to three acts of The Menstrual Cycle, including interminable variations on bleeding, which we were asked to read aloud.
There was Sally, who joined after she had not written for a long time. She was not really ready for any kind of criticism. Some feedback is black and white. When no one in the room understands, say, that the man and woman are lovers, and this is integral to understanding the story, the writer can’t ignore that the information has not come across clearly. Defensive and self-protective, Sally felt judged. She was arrogant and argumentative, often unable to maintain our rule of not responding to feedback. We no longer felt we could be honest, while she thought we were ganging up on her. She left after a few sessions.
The most invigorating and inspiring discussions have been between very different writers commenting on each other’s styles and forms. There was a woman who wrote like jazz, in lowercase letters with broken text and riffs of repetition. We were astounded by her bravery. A young Wasp with a dry sense of humour wrote a long short story made of intricate hilarious scenarios of a famous home-product designer who felt threatened by his younger, female competition.
Whether you need a deadline to push yourself, or have a monster of your own, a group can help to open the box. Something wonderful might come out.
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