Last week, I had the opportunity to meet four new people at the library. Not that meeting people at the library is particularly odd, unusual, or abnormal in any sense, but in this case the people were gathered for a singular purpose: to write. Rather, to listen to each other’s writing, for this was the bi-weekly Writers Roundtable meeting.

Apparently, they have been meeting on regular basis at numerous locations for years (though not necessarily together as a singuar group…they have wandered in from other groups scattered around the semi-local area). This gathering location has been a couple years in history. The meeting I attended was only a fraction of what it was a (bi)week earlier, with 7 others failing to make a show. (Not entirely unreasonable, with it being summer; many groups decline during the summer months because of competing activities—the kickball squad being a notible exception.) Half of the regulars brought in material written and printed during the past period for the group to hear and provide input/encouragement/constructive criticism regarding the effort.

My attendance was a semi-spur-of-the-moment event, as I had only learned of the group the day prior while feeding my addiction checking books out of the library. I arrived without a clear understanding of what I was getting myself into, as the only information I had was the time posting on the calendar of events: 6:00 Writer’s Roundtable. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be the standard 12-step group, going in and introducing myself: “Hello, I’m Phred, and I’m a writer…” followed by the group response “…hello, Phred.” Not quite that dramatic, but in some ways just as intense since they were compassionate about their craft. I heard from a younger gentleman writing for a youth picture book describing a room that allowed the user to change their physical and mental capabilities. It ended with the person reverting back to their original state after “cranking the wisdom dial as far as it would go….” It would appear it worked quite well.

The other reader was a middling woman bringing in several chapters (in the 33-38 range) of an ongoing adventure involving a teenage girl and her relationship with several people in her life. As it has been in development for an extended time, I was not as able to appreciate the story as the others, but could see the passion and focus in the work presented, and see a glimpse of the depth of the characters involved.

Both works were received with great enthusiasm and delight. The group was clearly bonded together in this task and was working to help one another become more skilled in their craft. I felt involved and welcome even on the first meeting and was included in the discussions (both the ones involving the readings and the following ones about the group in general).

It was with a measure of regret that I discovered the group was specifically created and focused on fiction writing. As much of the material I create (at least 83 of 97) involves me in some way or another, it seems unlikely a disinterested third-party observer would consider it fiction (even though a close examination of the material from the inside also suggests minimal direct contact with the “shared reality” that third-party observer would be claiming as a basis for fact/fiction, so it’s debatable who’s right in this case). I expressed as unlikely my future attendance to additional meetings in the near future.

But, a definite take-away point I got from my exposure to those for whom this process of putting pen/pencil/ribbon/toner to paper/screen/display is a serious adventure was to clarify a misunderstanding I developed from my education as a youth. Or, rather, a misunderstanding I acquired as a result of the LACK of education as a youth.

Since I’m an old f*rt (it’s taken a lot of trips around the sun to reach the place where I’m sort-of comfortable saying this kind of heresy), my education was during the dark ages before the internet gave you instant, easy access to knowledge. I’m from the Encyclopedia Brittanica era of learning.

My exposure to ancient Greek mythology was essentially as extensive as my development in learning Latin, which in the public schools of the 1960’s was essentially ZERO. Therefore, I sort of understood the concept of the Muse as a friendly, gentle spirit that guided you in the development of your craft. The dictionary.com listing for the second use (subunit 2) of ” (sometimes lowercase) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker,or the like ” reflects my thoughts of what it was supposed to be like. Light, good natured, friendly and helpful.

Not mine. Often there’s a hint of sulphur and brimstone wafting in the air when my muse has presented itself (gender neutral as it’s not clear if demonic spoor from the underworld actually come in multiple forms). No gentle taps on the shoulder or wispers in my ear to guide my attempts at creating. Rather, great hunks of flesh being rendered from my backside as it’s talons rake across my cowering body, it’s screams of styrofoam packing being rubbed together drowning out the chalkboard scraping fingernails of others trying to distract me from further attempts at maintaining sanity.

When asked, the others didn’t express the existance of a muse in their experience directly, but were driven to write for other reasons best summed up by the group leader. He said once he was asked by someone how they could “know” if they were a writer or not. His response was simply “just stop writing…if you can, you’re NOT a writer.” They write because they write. Oh, if it were only that easy…

To paraphrase something Mark Twain said about being addicted to smoking…

“…it’s easy to quit [writing]. I’ve done it hundreds of times…”

Phred

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