The Joy of Communal Creation

I learned about their existence while I was at an Art exhibition opening. I was talking to a person, and the subject got around to me writing fiction. It got around to my ideas about a collection of science fiction stories. At that point, I was calling it an Anthology.

Since joining them, I've been corrected, and told it is a collection - that's what a single author writes - multiple authors comprise anthologies - or, so I was told. What if I am multiple authors?

I do not know that I am, for one of my minds is difficult enough to deal with. Enough nebulous "them". It is a simple writing group. Every Thursday afternoon, since becoming aware of a brilliant local existence and meeting place, I've been attending (Except the last Thursday of each month, for reasons often made plain on the chain.)

Every week, there's a routine. We gather. People order coffee (or beer, or wine, or whatever strikes their fancy.) Pub staff struggle with the door, often using their legs or elbows to open the doorway to the old room. Some of these people have been gathering in this location for decades, perhaps longer, as a way to hone their craft.

It isn't an agile ceremony, but it has certainly has the mood of one - except people aren't talking about the tasks they've been given by the "business", they're updating each other on their "writing news" for the week. What they got up to. What they learned. What they regretted not doing. Explaining absences or goals, or regular routines.

In the time I've been there, Kay's kitchen has been renovated, and she's finally got her writing desk back in its proper place of glory. Tegan's been to San Francisco and back again. Carolyn lost a beloved family pet. Geoff went on an extended road trip. Alex has written two poems everyday, for a month. Janette is editing. Janet (a different person) is wonderful, powerful, articulate woman who has started a new story documenting the plight of Luddites upon the invention of the mechanical loom.

I've written a whole bunch of stuff on Hive. I joined Medium. I lamented my attempt to join sub stack. I've continued work on my fiction collection, but not at the rate I would like. I've looked for work. I've written in response to the homework.

Yes. Homework. Each week, we have homework, that we can choose to do, or choose not to do. If I were going to the meeting on the day I write this, the homework would be "schedule". I haven't had time yet. I will write it after I write this thing.

We then each read our homework and give affirming sounds and encouraging words or critique to each other. In a world where the term "safe space" is over used, no one means anything malicious by way of critique, and as writers, each has a way of presenting helpful suggestions to improve future writing. On the other side of the coin, everyone is mature enough to realise that feedback of the work is not feedback of the self.

The final section of the meetings are a live prompt. We each have fifteen minutes (sometimes less) to craft a poem or a short story, and to get it out onto paper, or onto laptop. We then go around and repeat the process. It is interesting to see the variety of responses achieved in a small room, with a small collection of people.

More interesting, it is delightful to see how the "writing news" shared by each individual informs their own writing of the prompt. Delightfully human. We all use unique styles, and return to common themes. You know that the person in the room is an author, and they're pouring their creative spirit into the page, in that room, during that time.

Collective selfish, pure creativity. Everyone leaves with a smile. Everyone forges a deeper connection each week. But not me, I know my time is up, and that for the immediate future, I only have one such meeting left.

Of course, I can participate online through their forum, but it isn't the same. Go and join a local writing group - whether you're writing creatively, or not - and I am certain you will make new connections, find new emotions, and gain a broader understanding of the process of putting pen to paper, or fingertip to key cap.

Each time the train trundles me away, I will think of them. While they may not be directly in my cognition at all moments, their lives do not cease. They think about their stories, they think on their desires, but I am sure, should I return in months, or years, they'll be there, still writing.

In that place to say that they are writing words and stories is not enough. Each and every person who enters that place, each week, worships the altar of creativity.