You need friends by Tracy Alexander

I started writing by accident. I was on my way home from the supermarket when I stopped to look in the window of the bookshop and saw an advertisement for a writing group. I'd been electively unemployed for a few weeks – after twenty years of working – and was already bored by being at home. I went to the class. And my writing life began. For a fuller version of this story see: Sliding Doors
For a blissful year I spent every Wednesday morning with writers of all shapes and smells, sharing our attempts at the homework and throwing ourselves into the exercise of the day. It was great. I still remember certain pieces that had us all silenced be it by their power, their insight, their rolling gait. Trevor's personification of an Old Master, the life support machine, Joan's description of standing on a London train station in a red dress, Dawn's cleverly clipped poetry. But it wasn't the outputs, it was the relationships that were buoying. We all know how vulnerable it feels to give voice to something that has only ever lived in a word file. Being the recipient of all of those first airings was something to treasure.
The next school year came and I reluctantly left the class to enrol on the University of Bristol's Creative Writing Diploma. A new group to bob along with. We spent two years crafting both our writing and our criticism of others. Naturally there were those I looked forward to hearing from, and others whose words didn't ever resonate. The feedback was similar, much was helpful but writing isn't meant to please everyone and you choose your critics. All good learning. The twenty or so who started the course fell to just eleven by the time we graduated. Eleven souls that I'd seen the inside of.

A lull after that. I became a published writer and sat alone in my study. Years passed.
Until an invitation in that same supermarket to join three other writers in a supportive group. Marvellous. It was the smallest group I'd brought my writing to and the most intensive because we were all writing novels. What a plus to have people to remind you that you've missed a trick, or gone off at too great a tangent, or lost the plot. We laughed. We occasionally forgot to be kind and assassinated each other's darlings. But we celebrated our union at the book launches, giving credit for our writing friends' strokes of genius when we'd written ourselves into the bottom of a dark, dank well. We met for many years and then, in the way of things, we started to meet less, circumstances changed and contributions became more sparse, and, slowly, the group dwindled away.
And here I am.
Life has got in the way of my writing these last couple of years and it's dawned on me that to get my mojo back I need writing friends. I need the discipline that comes with a regular meeting where you're expected to contribute. I need the kind words and the cruel. In fact, any words. I've spent too long inside my own head and it's crammed full. So, it might take a few weeks, but I'm going to find my new family. I'll study their faces and tune my ear to their cadence and, as the weeks go by, I'll start to know who they are, whether they intend me to or not. And they will see the truth of me. I can't wait . . .

www.tracyalexander.co.uk

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The Queen, Eeyore, Dylan and me, Muttley

A typical meeting of the writing group starts at two o’clock on a Monday or Tuesday at the Queen’s house. There are four of us.

The Queen – in overall charge.

Eeyore – in charge of doom.

Dylan – anything goes.

Muttley (me) – in charge of disruption.

As we approach the door, we all stop to admire the garden. Hollyhocks, black pansies, trailing clematis and shrub roses, all line the route to the porch. It’s hard not to feel envy. The Queen has fingers greener than the Hulk.

Once assembled, we share news. Of family. Of films seen. Of food eaten. Of builders. Of fellow Bristolians. At some point the Queen guides us onto matters of writing. We are reluctant, like a book group where no one has read the book. Dutifully we report any happenings. This element is short. We move on, taking it in turns to read aloud our latest work. There should be a method in deciding who goes first, but no, we argue about it. Every time.

Eventually, one of us sighs, brings out a few sheets of A4 and the process begins. One voice. Three scribblers, pens at the ready. We mean well, all four of us, truly we do. But it might not seem that way. The reader, sharing her tortured words with us, is rewarded by giggles, sly glances, outbursts . . . There is a rule that we don’t interrupt, but we break it gaily.  Whether it’s Eeyore’s made-up words, my endless internal monologues, Dylan’s love for continuous present or the Queen’s arty descriptions, we let rip. Small tears and then often huge great gashes. The problem is that we don’t agree. Hardly surprising if you consider our books. We have a plotter, a dreamer, a lover of tangents, a repeater, a spiritualist, a pragmatist, a weaver, a schemer, a joker . . . We like first person, third person, omniscient, accents, fantasy, reality, the past, the future . . . We all think the pace is too fast, too slow, non-existent . . . We’d all write the scene differently . . . although not necessarily any better.

The feedback is only about a quarter useful – we ignore the comments we don’t like. (They’re the same every time anyway – old dogs, new tricks.) However, the relationships, support and conviviality are invaluable. Tea and sweet things add to the pleasure.

 

When we’ve all had our moment in the spotlight, we try to arrange the next meeting. This takes some time. The Queen likes to holiday. Dylan has a roundabout to play on, Eeyore doesn’t know when she’s free, and I cannot plan ahead. But we manage, noting the date, and then emailing the Queen a week later to ask what we agreed.

I was invited to join the group after a random chat in an aisle at the supermarket. I barely knew the Queen, and had never met the others. The first few occasions were nerve wracking. Not only did I have to produce a few hundred words I could bear to read, I had to try to make clever comments. I failed at the latter, but they let me stay. Three and a half years later, I still look forward to going. In a world with no structure, the discipline of stumping up the next chapter – because turning up empty-handed is just not the deal – has been a huge part of getting my latest book in shape.

It’s a lonely business, but less so, thanks to the camaraderie in the kitchen of the house with the garden to die for. Long live the writing group.