With the advent of a new Writers Centre in Rockingham has come writing groups. And, as one of those groups is helmed by my very own Luscious, I found myself attending the first writing group meeting I've been to in something like eight years this week.
Writing groups can be a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it's an opportunity to spend time with like-minded souls, discussing your passion and working in a supportive and welcoming environment. On the other, they can become platforms for mediocrity and personality conflict, and-- particularly when work is being critiqued by a group of vastly differing levels-- horribly unfocused to the point of uselessness. I gave up attending groups at my previous writers centre when it became obvious that everyone involved was more concerned with egoboos and capturing the perfect snarky put-down than actually goddamn writing.
But Luscious is on the committee of this new Centre, and this was the first meeting of the group she was conducting, and she's an excellent professional who knows both how to write and bring out the best in others, and I'm an incredibly loving and supporting husband, and I was told I had no choice in the matter, so I went along.
Of course, Luscious is an excellent professional, and she knows how to make anyone and everyone in a room feel valued. The group was small, first time out-- eight of us, including Master 10 and Miss 13, who came because both parents were going but contributed like the children of an artistic household, with creativity and verve. And because she's good at what she does, I came away with three solid gold story openings.
So, regular Tuesday night writing group looks like a thing, and maybe just the thing to keep me in fresh material for the next wee while, which can't be anything but good. Because when a writing group works well it's usually because it has a strong, experienced, knowledgeable hand on the tiller, and I'm lucky enough to be married to just such a hand.... you know what I mean.
The room is littered with chipboard splinters. They're ground into the carpet, spread like snow across my bed. My fists, and the soles of my feet, sting where a billion tiny slivers have pierced the soft flesh and now lie embedded, waiting to fester, and poison, and ooze septic pus. The pain should make me angry, or afraid. I'm not. I want to laugh. I want to laugh so hard I run out of breath. I want my ribs to ache, my heart to burst. I want to double over and collapse to the floor. I want to rub my face in the carpet until my cheeks and forehead and lips are a spiderweb of tiny cuts and splinters. I'm so happy I want to fucking scream. I want the corners of my mouth to split. I want to taste my blood. I want to hurt something else. Anything will do.
Exercise: Picture something from your childhood. Something intimate, that has great meaning for you. Now destroy it, utterly, and irretrievably. Why have you done that? How does it make you feel?
If you want to know more about the Rockingham Writers Centre, or Luscious' Tuesday Night Writing Group, you could do worse than checking out their Facebook page.
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