A Case for Writers Groups

Last night a friend brought by his critique of my first novel beta read. He has excellent insights and a quick mind. He liked my book. Ha… I knew I liked him for a good reason. I'll call him Ralph for the sake of privacy.

Ralph is a relatively new member to the local writing group. I joined the group a little over three years ago. We talked for several hours about our work. I appreciated his coming by as I'm still recovering from surgery and haven't been able to attend my group meetings for the past six weeks.

Frankly, I was a bit surprised to see Ralph with my book. He hadn't been to a meeting for several months, and that isn't surprising as people come and go. They try us out and disappear. They come for a few months and disappear, some forever and some pop back up from time to time. I told him I had missed him at the meeting because his input has always been well spoken.

Ralph said he was working on his book and wanted to submit it for beta read when he finished it. Then he asked me, how much of a contribution would I ascribe to the group for the completion of my novel. I told him that the book I wrote wouldn't have been the book it is. That it would have been relegated to the heaping pile of horrible first novels that everyone says has to be thrown away. He was surprised to hear that with his thinking I was just that good. Don't I wish.

Local writers groups are priceless for many reasons as I see it. Here are a few:

1. A writing group is suitable for any level of writing skill. There are several in my group that have two or three books completed and are shopping for agents. There is one published author. We have beginners and advanced writers. We have pantsers and plotters. We have grammar police people and not so much so.

2. Having an advanced college degree does not necessarily a writer make. Hey, in the business world with a few exceptions, it's a truncated communications foray. Writing, especially in the world of email and memos, writing based on substance and way less so on the way it's written. I never had a boss send back a memo with red ink on it and tell me as soon as I clean up the commas, sentence fragments, and sentence splices, I can have the money for the parts needed to move the assembly line along. I'm not saying we shouldn't write clearly. We just write abbreviated.

When we get into a writers group. Oh my gosh, are bad habits hard to break. The writing group members, in a loving way, will let you know just what those bad writing habits are. And some people will tell you in no uncertain terms what to do to correct yourself. Thank goodness, I'm an old retired Navy Chief with a skin of barnacles when I presented my first short story to them. I had no idea that I had written such a great story so poorly.

3. Friendships are made. It can't be helped. Even with seeing each other once or twice a month we become close having writing as our baseline. We all write in different genres and even going through the critiquing process for material we'd usually never read gives us an appreciation of other styles.

Okay, people are people. Not everyone has a smooth presentation of their critique and could be a bit hurtful. Well - okay, some have been. Some people lose sight of the story and lay on the writer the onus of what was written. Generally, it's a ground rule that we critique the work and not the writer. I was asked not to come back to a group because I used the N-word for Black-Americans in my book set in 1936 and I only used it once in context. I was in two writers groups. The writers group that asked me not to come back had an average age a couple decades below the other group I've been in for three years. That's okay though, Spring came and they all melted.

We have had members suffer heart attacks (not because of critiques, I don't think), strokes, cancer, and deaths of family members. We've visited them in the hospital, taken casseroles to their homes and otherwise done what we could to extend comfort to them. Why? Because we are all friends.

4. To the meat of writers groups for good writing. Many eyes. I've moved chapters around because of the input from the group that I didn't see. I've changed POV's, fixed timelines and plot holes that I didn't notice. I've added story elements that I didn't think of, all because of the input from the writers group. No man or woman is an island - somebody said something like that. I added woman for modern day political correctness. Point is, my book is a product of synergy that came about from the writers group that I could never have accomplished on my own.

After relaying these thoughts to Ralph, he is rethinking his attendance. We all want to put out a readable and enjoyable writing people will like. I recommend joining a local writers group regardless of your writing skill level.

Brutus - Flash Fiction

BRUTUS

            “Harold. Harold!”

            “What? Pearl, I’m right here in the barkerliner.  Not need to be shout’n at me.” Harold turned his head toward where he knew Pearl’s overstuffed chair sat and squinted. 

            “It ain’t that.”

            “Ain’t what?”

            “You’re recliner.  It ain’t what you called it.”

            Harold could detect exasperation in her voice. “Is too.  I’ve been sittn’ in it nigh on fifteen-years.  You’d think I’d know what I’m sitting on.”

            “Well, that may be, but it ain’t that.  It’s something like that, but that ain’t it.”

            Remembering something he heard on television, he felt sure he could clear it up.  “Pearl, it’s tomato or tomato.  Same thing.”  That would certainly settle it.

            “What?  You old coot.  What’s tomatoes got to do with anything?  Anyways, that wasn’t what I’s calling you for.”

            Feeling right proud of himself, Harold was satisfied his logic worked on her. “Alright Dear.  I’m listening.”

“That damn dog of your’n isn’t holdn’ up his end of the deal.”

            “Whatcha talkn’ about?  Sure, he’s done his part.  You said if he ran off that black and white cat you let in, he could stay in.  I’d say he did quite well, the smell is pertin’er all gone.  I stopped gagging a week ago.”

            “Well, that may be.  I ain’t throwed-up for a while now.  But little did I know he was going to eat everything in the house.  I ain’t got a Dollie left. It pulled off the kitchen table cloth and chewed it up.  It knocked over the trash can and commenced to eaten’ the wrappers off the cans.”

            He heard her slap something on the lamp stand.  Reaching over he felt it was her crotchet. “Sure, as hell, don’t know what to tell ya.  Them new Huskies are like that I reckon.  William shoulda warned us about their peculiar eat’n habits when he brought him out here thinkin’ the farm would give him space to run.”  Of all the kids, William was the only one to move half-hour away to Kanas City.  “William said Brutus would help keep the weeds down along the drive. Never heard of a dog doing that before.  Or have I forgotten?  Dang.  No, must be one of them their foreign dogs. Yep, that’s it.  I remember seeing some of our dogs eating grass before, over the years, you know you’d seen em doin’ it too.”

            “That’s fur shur.  I ain’t been able to keep a decent flower bed since he showed up.” Pearl lamented.  “You get that dog out of the house.  Tell William he has to take ‘em back.”

            “Oh, for Pete’s sake.  We ain’t never had a dog that never barked before.  I kinda like that.  Gotta admit, Brutus sounds like a herd of wild horses running up and down the hallway.  I think he needs his nails clipped,” Harold said.

            “He ain’t housebroke.  I’m startn’ to get a bit put out cleaning up his messes. Get em out of here.  I think William’s is coming over today.”

            “Okay.  If you’re feeling so head strong about it. By the way, did I smell fresh baked cookies from yesterday?”

            “In the cookie jar.  That’s something else I had to deal with Brutus.  He just wouldn’t leave me alone while I was trying to shell the walnuts.”

            Harold snapped the recliner closed and instinctively navigated the known path through the living room where the furniture hadn’t been moved for decades.  A gray blur raced by clapping on the floor. “Brutus,” Harold called out, “don’t be running off.  We’re gonna’ go out after I get me a couple cookies."

            Retrieving two cookies from the jar, he stuck one in his mouth dangling between his lips. Turning he pushed the cookie half-way in this mouth and bit.

            Crunch.

            “What the hell, Pearl.  There’s shells in the cookies.”

            “Don’t go blaming me.  You’re the one that brought me that there eight-pound sledge to break’em with.  It was a chore separatin’ out from the meat.”

            “Sweetheart, you were supposed to put the walnuts on the sledge and break then with the little hammer.”

            “Well, I didn’t see no little hammer.  I put a newspaper down on the floor and broke 'em there mak’n two piles. That damn dog kept stick’n it’s nose in my business.”

            Harold kept chewing and spitting shell out in his hand.  “Don’t look to me there’s any walnut meat in these.  It’s all shell.”

            “Well, don’t that just beat all.  That damn dog’s fault.  I must’a scoped up the wrong pile to put in the batter.  Well, you don’t like it don’t eat em.  Or go out on the porch and spit shells in the yard like watermelon.”

            With a big sigh, Harold dropped his hand to his waist and instantly Brutus snagged the cookie, taking off with a clatter down the hallway.  Harold pinned him at the end of the hallway, holding his breath where the lingering smell was the strongest.  Trapped under his arm he carried Brutus out the door and let it snap shut behind him.

            A few minutes later he came back in, stomped down the hall to the bedroom and slammed around awhile.  Finally, he came out and plopped into his barkerliner. 

            “Well?” Pearl asked.

            “Well, what?”

            “What’da do with Brutus?”

            “I stuck him in the old truck.  I’s gonna tak’em down to William’s but I can’t find the keys.”

            “That old truck ain’t run in thirty-years.  What you think’n?”

            “Stop pull’n my leg.  I had it out just a few days ago.  Anyways, that where the dang dog is when William comes over.”

Picture by Elazar Cohen

Waiting - Flash Fiction

picture by Enrique Meseguer

Waiting

By Emmett Hall

Susan stood in the middle of the kitchen after putting the Bundt cake in the lower half of the oven.  “Oven set the temperature to 350 for 50 minutes.” 

“Would that be upper oven or lower oven?”

“Lower.”

“Lower oven set for 350 degrees for 50 minutes.”

She turned her wrist over, and the watch was blank. “Dang, I forgot to set it on the charger,” She told herself as she unstrapped it. She slid a bowl of oranges over to unveil a round charging disk.  Susan dropped the watch on it and the edger of the disk began to pulsate in a pale blue glow.

“Samsung, what time is it?”  Four pleasant voices, one man and three women answered almost in unity.  “Ththe timtimtime isisisis 222424245 ppmpm.”

Rolling her eyes, she almost understood what they had said.  It going to take a little time getting used to the kitchen remodel.  It was still undecided which appliance she should address.  If she asked the brand, she got, what she just got.  She had to condition herself to talk to just one for general queries.  The refrigerator seemed the likely bet.  After all, it would stream music and playbooks, compile shopping lists and give news with video.  The dishwasher was too much of a mouthful to ask anything of all the time, and besides, once she set the myriad of controls on it, she never had to change it. 

The oven was a short sweet call.  Not without its problems though.  She asked it the temperature outside after it was installed a few weeks ago. “The temperature is 375 for 45 minutes,” the oven responded. 

It must have missed the word outside.  “No, Oven I want the temperature outside right now.” 

“Right now, in New Haven is 62 degrees.”  The oven said.

As she had rounded the corner to the rec room, she heard the oven say something else.  By the time she returned it was done talking.  She went on her way.  Forty-five minutes later, a pleasing bonging began.  Susan put her book down and went into the kitchen and opened the oven door and looked at the baked zucchini.  It looked just like it had when she put it in there. What the heck?  On inspection, she found the oven had reset the cooking temperature to 62 degrees.  The provolone cheese hadn’t even melted in the lest. Lesson learned, don’t query the oven for temperatures not related to cooking.

It’s down to the microwave, the toaster or the refrigerator.  The microwave was too many syllables.  The kids keep moving the toaster around knocking out the time making it unreliable.  Back to the refrigerator.  After looking in the manual and punching in codes and a bit of trial and error, Susan finally got it renamed to Fridge.  All she has to do is remember it.

“Fridge.  What time is it?”

“The time right now is 2:55 pm.” 

Susan rinsed and stuffed her cake making utensils into the dishwasher.  The microwave announced.  “Time to go pick up the children in fifteen minutes.”  “Time to go pick…”

“All right, stop.”

“up the children in fifteen minutes.  Time to…

“Microwave, I said stop.”

Bong

Slamming the dishwasher door shut, dishes rattled, Susan paused and took a deep breath.  “Sorry, dishwasher.  It’s not your fault I’m cranky with the microwave.”

The dishwasher was mute.  Maybe she wasn’t forgiven.  She dried her hands on a steel gray dish towel matching the appliances and hung it back on the oven door handle.

“Fridge what is the temperature outside right now, this minute?”

“The temperature in New Haven is a balmy 72 degrees.”

Balmy?  Isn’t that a bit subjective for a refrigerator?  How does the fridge know it’s balmy from my balmy?  She remembered an explanation in the manual.  Something to do with some mathematical formulas, an algorithm having to do with humidity, temperature, wind speed, and dew point to give a declaration of air condition.  Dew point?  What the hell does that have to do with anything?  

“I’ll just grab a shawl and go now,” Susan said to the fridge, as though it was listening.  Actually, it was listening she realized, but not queued to respond without being woke up. 

She chuckled at the thought, if only Henry, her husband, could be programmed that way.  Henry already was to a degree.  He even admitted it.  Early in their marriage, she had been talking to him and asked him a question and got no response.

“Henry!  You listening to me?”

“Oh, sorry, dear.  I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

“What.  No one else is here.”

“I didn’t realize that.  Just say my name and that will get my attention.”

How little did she know she’d have a whole collection of Henrys built into her kitchen years later.

Wrapping the light tan shawl over her shoulders, she followed the short path down to the rocky shoreline.  Sitting on a jutting outcrop of stone, Susan relaxed waiting for the school saucer to drop the kids off.

Maybe she can get Sammy or Tiffany to fine tune the kitchen for her after they get their homework done.  Otherwise, she may have to explain to Henry how the dents got in the appliances and how the dents matched the ones on his head for buying all that stuff.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  The school saucer settled on his spindly legs.