As obvious as it was,
I didn't see the storm coming.
My NYC writers group imploded. The implosion happened in
mid-June, out of nowhere, and it caught me by surprise.
Sometimes writing about something helps me understand it, or
put it into perspective or, when necessary, let it go. Maybe I’ll land squarely
on some nugget of truth we can all benefit from.
The breakup was ugly and wrenching, with accusations and
tears and hurt feelings. Not only did our group break up, but at least one
valued friendship ended. Since then, none of us has communicated. Our Thursday
afternoon writers group was very good and now it’s very gone. I am still in
disbelief.
Every week we listened to amazing stories — a handsome young
husband’s cruel betrayal, a loving father’s midnight whiskey fogs, a single
mom’s multiplying payday loans. We talked about the metaphors, the points of
view, the sentences that worked and those that didn’t. We referenced other
books. We brought luscious treats like chocolate chunk cookies and creamy gelatos
from New York’s finest shops. Could it get any better?
We told each other how important this group was, how well it
served us, how we wouldn’t know what we’d do without it and then … boom. Just
like that.
Writers groups have to have rules. A few I’m familiar with
are: Don’t debate another member’s critique; leave it to the author to take it
or leave it. Be polite when you critique but by all means critique. Be on time.
Don’t mistake the writers group for a pajama party. There’s work to be done and
limited time. Yes, there are lots of rules and most long-lived groups end up adopting
a few.
Sometimes you have to evict a member from your group. If you
have to do it, do it right away. Better yet, have a very strict admittance
protocol so that you induct only those who fit in. I’ve heard myself tell
groups: This is not a democracy. She has to go.
If she doesn’t, the group will go down.
My NYC writers group evicted one of our members a year ago
last spring. She was reading a very personal, powerful memoir about her life as
a sex worker and her battle with acute depression and hallucinations. She was a
dominant that specialized in kicking men in the testicles. She had good reasons
to like this. And the men that signed up for what’s called ball busting liked
it as well. Though her stories were hard to take, they were well written. I
thought her book had a chance if she were to pull the various chapters together
into a cohesive whole.
NYC is often called the creative capital of the world.
It's easier to find and connect with writers here.
But there's a volatility, too.
Our group took a retreat and spent a long night helping her
produce an outline with chapter synopses. She wore us out and the next day one
of our key members said she’d had enough. The schizophrenic had to go. We
ousted her for being too needy and too oblivious to us. The previous afternoon,
while we were in the swimming pool, the about-to-be-ousted member asked me to
photograph her. I noticed that she was always aware of me, always posing,
always turning herself toward me provocatively. One of her attributes was her
beauty. If she was a narcissist, as some thought, she was oddly vulnerable and sweetly
likable — attributes she used to her advantage.
This spring another group member got targeted as disruptive
and insensitive. The complaint: She talked too much and she interrupted others
to the point that some felt the quality of our critiques had suffered. The
objecting member proposed a slew of rules meant to eliminate all the chitchat
and keep things more orderly. In an instant we were to go from collegial and
friendly to no-nonsense workshop. The transition felt undoable. The two members
locked horns, laying down boundaries that essentially took both from the group.
With two of the four core members gone, that was it. Immediately
prior to all this happening, I had recruited three new members who knew nothing
of the dispute. I still haven’t had the heart to tell them. I’ve been hosting a
virtual group with the new members this summer in hopes that all will be
forgiven and that our group will miraculously reconvene this fall. This kind of
protracted hoping is an example of me needing to work the serenity prayer:
God grant me the
serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I
can; and wisdom to know the difference.
I think the clarity I’ve been looking for is starting to
materialize.
There are good reasons this implosion happened. Groups need
rules but rules are hard to implement after a certain critical point —
specifically, when patience has dried up. Second, writers groups resemble
therapy groups even if they’re not therapy groups. Lots of psychology gets
revealed in the process of reading, critiquing and rewriting. In other words,
we know a lot about each other. Thus, and third, trust and sensitivity are essential.
Had we trusted each other, we could have brought up the issue of excessive
chitchat a lot earlier and simply helped each other through the hurt feelings.
Our writers group retreat in the Hamptons
felt like a gift till one member tried our patience.
The rest of us planted the seeds of our eventual destruction.
I once started a writers group that functioned for years
with me as host. We met in a conference room at the newspaper where I worked as
an arts magazine managing editor. I invited the people. I disinvited them.
Once, one of our long-term members plagiarized a short story. She put her name
on another member’s story, changed the beginning slightly and got it published.
When I found out, I did what I thought was the logical thing and told her to
leave. I loved my writers group more than it loved me. When I took a job at the
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and asked if we could move the group’s starting
time up 15 minutes to accommodate the train schedule, they said no and that was
that.
Which proves to me that a writers group is not a family.
It’s not a bunch of best buddies. It’s not therapy. And it’s not school. Its
primary purpose is to help you produce good writing. If that stops happening —
for any reason — expect an implosion.
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