The following article, while not an interview, is an interesting and frank reflection on writing groups by Lorraine Jones.
After years spent working in the business world, I am now an aspiring writer. Although my journey along this path has been relatively short, it’s been interesting – my boots have scuff marks to prove it.
Lorraine Jones
Writing groups make me
twitch. The idea is great – like-minded
people with similar interests, a chance to learn and grow with each other,
companions in an occupation noted for its isolation – but the reality . . .
I’ve poked my nose into a few groups from time to time, sometimes against my
better judgement, always cautiously and more often than not, uncomfortably. Invariably, I end up feeling like Goldilocks
trying out the chairs in the three bear’s cottage – this one’s too small, this
one’s too tall. I’ve yet to find one
that’s just right. Is it me? Is it the groups I’ve tried? I wouldn’t presume to say, but trying to
picnic in these woods can sometimes be uncomfortable.
Perhaps it’s because the art of creation is so personal. We do after all, tend to write from our hearts,
those notoriously delicate organs that seek connection and mutuality above all
else. It’s not that I want to marry a
writing group, but I do feel the need for a certain level of compatibility if
I’m to maintain hope that something positive may germinate from my regular
sowing of time and attention and the risk I take putting forward my ‘darlings’
for review.
The first time I joined a writing group it was part of a
community adult education endeavour. We
had a published author for our tutor and a group of ten enthusiastic pencil
pushers. Surely that was a recipe for
success? Apparently not. Within a few weeks our numbers had halved and
those still brave enough to show up had become a hesitant herd of shuffling
sheep cringing awkwardly in cramped and uncomfortable desks. Unfortunately for us, while our tutor may
have been published, she had yet to gain any tutoring skill or an understanding
of the importance of respect. I watched
as she slaughtered the stories of members I most admired and dripped condescending
encouragement upon those with least skill. My own hesitant first offering, the beginning of a fantasy story, was
met with a snort of derision and a terse ‘Why don’t you just write the real
story instead of hiding it behind this other stuff!’ I was stunned. What was wrong with fantasy? What did she mean - write the real
story? I thought I was. Not surprisingly, this group failed to run
the next term – not enough enrolments. I
put away my pen and looked for other more rewarding hobbies.
A few years later, after unearthing some of my earlier
attempts, I dusted off my pen and tried again.
It started out well enough, as groups often do, but before long the rot
began to seep through the cracks. As
always, it began with an incompatibility of personalities and
expectations. Subgroups began to
covertly form, power plays erupted more frequently and before long critiques
were more a reflection of what one person thought of another than a genuine
response to the writing offered for reflection.
There was talk among some members of breaking away and forming another
writing group, but before long the entire endeavour fell apart and we all
withdrew to the comparative safety of our own writing desks. It was easier to wrestle uncomfortably with our
internal critics than risk involving ourselves in another fiasco. The hardest thing about groups of any sort it
seems is building trust, respect and the ability to stay focused on a common
endeavour.
A bit later, I tried again. A small group of quite experienced women,
some already published. It showed
promise and I began to feel excited. What
I liked about this group was it seemed to have a better handle on what productive
critiquing involved. The members were
more adept at combining genuine encouragement with helpful suggestions and
observations. They readily owned, in a
good way, feelings of envy when someone produced a particularly good piece of
work. Perhaps it was simply experience and
a strong sense of their own voice, despite moments of frustration that gave
them the confidence to willingly offer help to others. Feedback was something they reflected on,
rather than reacted against, picking and choosing what resonated for them. Being a small group meant there was plenty of
time for everyone, so it was quite relaxed.
Then one ended up in hospital for an extended time, the venue became
unavailable and despite my own successful efforts to secure another, this group
also fell apart. Forget Goldilocks, now
I felt more like one of the three little pigs, tailed by a persistent wolf
huffing and puffing and blowing my house down.
I toughed it out alone for a while and managed to achieve
quite a lot. A small burst of
professional mentoring gave me the impetus to keep going and I began to enjoy
my writing. Then, an opportunity arose
to give it one more go. Like many
prospective relationships, the possibility of getting it right this time was sufficient for me to set
aside, albeit hesitantly, my hard won caution and stick my toe back in the
water. Time would tell.
Every group seems to have a personality of its own. Sometimes cautiously welcoming, other times
self-important and controlling. I
suspect only a few get it just right, and maintaining that rightness probably
requires adjustment, especially when new members join. Each has its own way of trying to generate
the sense of safety their members need.
Inevitably, we’re all looking for a good fit – our own version of
writing happily ever after. Perhaps
finding it is no different from other areas of our life, sometimes you get
lucky, other times you have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and try
again.
I love the way that Lorraine has used the nursery rhyme theme to describe her experiences.
ReplyDeleteTop read thanks Lorraine.