Back in early December,
a friend of mine and I
decided to start
a small writing group.
We'd both been
losing the struggle
against not writing
for some time.
We thought we'd join forces
to try to turn the tide.
His wife-to-be,
a sometime poet
and psychiatric nurse,
decided to sign up too.
We held our first meeting
at their place,
some time before Christmas.
I brought some old posts
I thought might have
development potential--
or at least serve as
a decent introduction
to my self as a writer.
My friend brought a
fantasy novel, sweeping in scope,
that he's been figuring out
for years. Much of it was written
when he was bored
at his former job.
His fiancee had written
some poems recently,
about nights in the ward
and her upcoming marriage.
We traded copies,
read and talked and
re-assured each other.
Then we didn't meet again
for months.
New Yorkers are busy people.
And entropy is a powerful force.
Which brings me to today's
list of small graces:
1. The recent, spring-like stirrings
of our writers' group,
scenting the air with
the invigorating promise of renewal.
2. Indulging once in a while
in gluttonous purple prose.
3. Discovering the pleasure
of editing--
the task of trying to help
someone else find and shape their words
helps me work out how to
do the same for myself.
Which is inspiring.
4. Learning to separate
process from inspiration.
No, that's not quite it.
4. Learning a process
that invites,
but does not require,
inspiration.
I find it interesting/suspicious
how many recent sources I could cite
in my formulation of item #4.
Conspiracy theories abound.
5. Writing as cartography.
