Who wants to go first? I say, a nervous tremble edging its way into my voice.
Eight of us have gathered on my balcony terrace in sunny Barcelona, clutching print outs, sipping ice tea, smiling because we’re nervous and also because it’s our first Writing Group meeting not on a screen. Jenny hands out a tray of snacks – Spanish gildas (anchovy, pickled peppers, and green olives on a stick – sublime) whilst Paloma puts a bottle of local cava in an ice bucket – we’ll have that later.
Any takers?
No response. I rephrase, remembering I’m the only Brit here. (We’ve got two Americans, two Irish, a Catalan, a German, a Singaporean, and a Scot – that’s me).
Anyone willing to start?
Silence. Laura, the Catalan, begins a coughing fit, and Maeve, the Irish retiree, thwacks her back with surprising force whilst repeating The wrong way, the iced tea, it’s gone the wrong way down.
Ok, I’ll go! I say, forcing some cheer over the quiver in my voice, to the point where maybe I sound a little deranged. At least I can’t read the whole thing with my microphone on mute again, I add. Kindly, Jenny laughs. I hand out my piece, and I’m one short.
I’ve just broken Ground Rule Number One – Bring a print out of your piece for everyone. I apologise, fussing with my phone so I can read it from the screen instead, whilst Maeve protests that she can share with Laura, who’s still a little purple.
I’m handed back a sheet of my own writing. I take a breath – the gilda has left a vinegar tang in my mouth – and begin.
Because that’s Ground Rule Number Two – no preamble allowed. And this is my favourite rule, although I hate it. No ‘This piece is rubbish’ or ‘I was trying to capture this…’ or even ‘I was inspired by’. None. Being sensitive writers, we’re prone to over-apologising, over- agonising, being type-A self-critical, and if we only hear our voice, where’s the room to hear the others? It’s like my mother, who always serves a dish apologising that it’s a bit burnt, or lacks salt, or that it’s a new recipe so she has no idea how it’s turned out, and by the time we’ve started eating, we’re already persuaded to hate the meal she spent hours painstakingly preparing. With this rule, there’s no option to enter that dark metaphorical hole where self-belief is unwelcome. With this rule, we have to own and celebrate our writing.
I read my piece. I hate it and I kind of love it. It’s the start of a short story, a light-hearted romance of a girl in her early twenties, struggling to find her purpose as well as a partner. I finished it in a rush during lockdown and entered it into a few competitions to resounding silence. I think this is because, like its protagonist, it lacks a wider purpose, an emotional thrust. I wonder what the group will say.
Because that’s Ground Rule Number Three – after reading, zip your mouth shut and let the group chat. We can speak for as long as they want. We may pick out a turn of phrase they liked or comment on the themes we identified, but mostly we’re less analytical – Did we connect with the piece? Where do we see it going? Which sections, if any, felt a little flat?
Although when it comes to critical comments, we try to rephrase them as follow-up questions. Nobody has come here to criticise someone else for daring to be creative. After the chat is over, the writer is invited to preamble. The curious thing is, after hearing everyone say (mostly) nice things about your piece, it feels silly to be self-critical. Instead, it becomes more appropriate to share your inspiration and creative process, and where you want to take it. You’re also welcome to ask them more questions. In my case, I proposed various endings, and we workshopped one together. I wanted something weighty but understated. Some options, we decided, were too melodramatic, and others were a bit (as Maeve put it) nothing-y. From my experience of judging writing competitions, I know that a fizzle out ending is the easiest to forget. Carver makes it look easy.
After me, Jenny shared her memoir-style blog piece, Laura her latest poems based on the street fiestas around the city, and Zara gave us another chapter of her novel set in a high security prison. After a round of cava, Maeve read us some Seamus Heaney that was inspiring her song writing (the songs themselves, not yet ready), Lexi performed her spoken-word comment-piece on Eurovision (hilarious), and Alyssa – the only person who responded to the theme we had set – freedom – read us a microstory of Mrs Midas, after her husband was turned to gold. This, as I mentioned, was one of our first meetings. We had a range of genres, styles, and only one out of eight followed the theme. We were lovely with each other. Perhaps too gentle about each other’s work. We headed home, a little tipsy but also inspired to sit down at the keyboard once again.
Although, I had some lingering thoughts.
The writing group served me. But it had its limits. I wanted to make changes. Part of me loved the randomness of what appeared once a month. Songs, poems, blogs, spoken-word. In the next meeting, Maeve arrived without the promised songs, but with some Jane-Austen- heroine themed cryptic crossword clues (Novel Woman Keeping Line In Iron Reworked). The group’s pieces were playful and creative, and there’s something to be said for writing
without ambition, or purpose, even. Writing to enjoy writing. In the same way, I may go for a run without training for a race but just to enjoy my music, to see the first blossom on the trees.
But I also felt there were others, including me, who wanted more – more criticism, more direction, a bit more rigour. The meeting really depended on who turned up, who brought writing (as people were always welcome to come just to listen), and what they wrote – and in this way, we were a little directionless; we lacked objectives. It was fun and lovely and I felt less lonely as a writer. It was exactly the post-lockdown antidote we needed. It was inspiring, sometimes. But was it transforming my writing in the way I wanted it to?
I opened WhatsApp and put it to the group.
How about we split our meetings into sub-groups? Those who have longer, more ambitious pieces, and are seeking publication, not just a familial read, could hold workshop-style craft-focused meetings, whilst we also maintain the monthly ‘theme’ piece meeting as a group, for the sense of fun and productivity it brings.
It worked. In our first group meeting – based on the concept of ‘names’ – everyone played with the theme, and the varied responses were fascinating. And also, as Maeve put it, therapy – but free! Then, in our first ‘project’ meeting, we felt confident to delve a little deeper into the workshopping, the criticism, and set deadlines and objectives for the next one. I managed to ‘fix’ my story – what I needed was a change of setting, something with higher
stakes, and to remove the jokey but directionless dialogue.
Since that meeting, we’ve held meetings like this. Not always regularly. But when we’ve held them they’ve felt more fulfilling, more purposeful, because our objectives have been aligned. From this experience I learned to appreciate all different approaches to writing – as a hobby, to finish my short story collection, to share my debut novel. All meetings, be it fun or serious, theme or project, have served a purpose, whether it was to write my first poem, loosen my clutches of self-doubt, or edit something more meaningful.
What I’ve learnt is this: set out the objectives, share them, agree to them. Set out your ground rules. Set out some dates, perhaps the first Friday of every month. Something regular, something you can rely on to build the momentum your work needs, something to which you can set and meet deadlines. You only need a handful of writers to make it work. In fact, less is more. Once, when Maeve’s sisters were visiting, we totalled twelve, and it turned into a party. A fun one. But not a writing club!
I’ve also learned how to criticise other people’s work to their face, which is a different skill to posting comments on an online writing course. There’s more responsibility and meaning to your words when it’s live. There’s more back and forth. You learn to spot things in your own writing – where the pacing is too fast or where it drags, where information is missing. The great thing about my international context was addressing issues of reader confusion – the Americans didn’t get my reference to brogues, a joke about a nineties iconic British show fell flat for everyone except the Irish – and you realise that audience matters, especially if you are submitting to journals and prizes. I also, weirdly, realised that many of my characters drink coffee and cook lasagne. The writing group sharpened my own editing, but more importantly, it boosted both my productivity and my self-esteem.
And finally, what’s not to love about meeting up with like-minded people to geek-out about the perfect place to put a comma, especially when you’ve moved to a new city?
And when I finished my story, and sent it to some journals and competitions, I was shortlisted in the Bridport and Bath prizes. For that, I’ve got my seven writing group pals to thank.
