Paragraffers Writing Club

Last night I went to my first writing group meeting since moving here to Canada. The group calls itself The Paragraffers and meets every second Tuesday at the library in town. When I first arrived I thought that everyone in the Fort must be a writer because the parking lot was full. Truthfully everyone in town thinks they need to lose weight and were there for the Weight Watchers meeting. I don’t think I have ever seen so many women happily walking through the door of any group whose existence depended on their inability to eat right and exercise regularly. Of course, if I get any happier or sassier, I might end up one of them. For last night however, I was there to check out writers’.

My last group was organized by a fellow widow and teacher back in Iowa. It was a group of just women, and we met once a month at a local coffee house. I have to confess, I didn’t have a chance to really get heavily involved though I did met some wonderful women. By the time I had gotten my feet wet, I knew Rob already and it wasn’t long before I was having to start my long farewells to a number of groups with whom I had only just begun to feel comfortable. What I had enjoyed the most about writing group was simply the conversation that spun off the writing. Sometimes it would stick closely to the topic at hand but just as often it would verve off into lively chatter about a range of things that were just as important in nurturing my creative spirit as sharing my writing was. The group last night was typical of what I am accustomed to as far as work-shopping goes. I have taken a number a writing workshop courses through the University of Iowa’s writing program, even taught the workshop model myself at a variety of grade levels, and most clubs base themselves on the workshop method developed there and fostered now on many academic campuses. Someone reads a piece aloud, or the group comes together having already read someone’s piece via email attachment or shared document file, and the readers offer feedback to the writer. In the college, or professional I imagine, setting the feedback usually errs on the side of criticism which can be brutal and of dubious use. Most of it though is jealous pulldown. No one, in my opinion, can be as snotty as an insecure writer. In the “laymen’s” writing group however, the feedback is generally positive and the critiquing meant to be constructive. There aren’t, or shouldn’t anyway, any ego’s at stake. Realistically there should never be ego at stake in any writing group. A person is either a writer or he/she is not, and comparing one piece of writing to another is like trying to decide what shade of blue is “the” blue. Blue is blue. Writing is writing. It is good or it needs work. For nearly every kind of writing there is an audience, and no one type or genre is better than another. It all depends on the tastes and needs of the individual.

The Paragraffers were brought together a year ago by a woman named Kathie Southerland. She was tired of driving into the city to attend writing groups and wanted something closer to home. The group’s size and participants varies from month to month depending on people’s needs, and last night I was one of six attending and one of two newbies. An engineer from Calgary named Brenda was the other newcomer. Though she downplayed her skills, I noticed that she was quite insightful when offering feedback and easily picked up on such things as recurrent theme and the way Kathie made use of past and present tense in her third person narrative of the tale of how her parents met and fell in love. It reminded me of Rob and how dispassionate he can be when editing my work. An engineer thing, I suppose. There was a junior high school teacher who moonlights as a stand up comic. Rob’s girls both had her for English. There was another woman, Christine, who might also be an minister just going by her comment about writing sermons, but I could be wrong. There was an elderly woman named Pat. She is eighty-six which reminded me of my Great-Aunt Liz who was still taking university courses to improve her writing when she was that age. Now, at one hundred, Auntie Liz merely writes the occasional piece for the local paper and contributes to the newsletter at the facility where she was forced to take up residence when she broke a hip at 94, slipping on the ice right before the weekday morning mass. There was another older gentlemen. Possibly in his early sixties. It was hard to tell. He has vision trouble and wears those thick glasses that remind you of magnifying lens that came out of Cracker Jack boxes long ago. Only, of course, his were much bigger.

The meeting followed the predictable pattern of meetings when new people are present and began with introductions. I hate introducing myself. Rob asked me later if I had been nervous. I can be notoriously shy. However, I don’t find myself reticent anymore when I am in my element. Those being nearly anything to do with education, widowhood, and writing. All three are topics on which I can expound and are groups I “get” on a deep gut level. I speak quickly however and I am acutely aware of my accent here, so I went as slowly as I could, consciously trying to not veer off topic as is my wont verbally as well as on the page. Being from the United States makes me a bit of a curiosity, and my widowhood and remarriage gives others a bit of pause. These revelations were might in stride though. After introductions come readings, feedback, more reading and more feedback and the evening ended with a writing exercise. Last night’s exercise was to take the first line of a poem, brainstorm and write your own poem incorporating that first line. For the life of me, I couldn’t do it. Probably because I am not much of a fan of the reading of poetry. I enjoy writing it, but I haven’t much interest in anyone’s poetry save my own. It’s just not my thing. I am always fairly free-wheeling with poetry too. When I taught poetry, I emphasized free verse and use poetic lines to literally shape the ideas in it. This appeals to kids who are frightened of the writing process in most, if not all, of its forms, and the idea of writing without rules finds fertile fields in their rebellious little souls. Mostly I taught that way because it’s the only way I enjoy poetry. I like a good acrostic poem to facilitate the learning of science or social studies now and then, but free verse in the early fall when summer is waning and the reality of another 8 months hits is like visiting the pumpkin farm before the first heavy frost. It’s all orange-gold and solid. I managed to knock out a tiny poem about how writing poems is difficult. Which it is without the proper preparation and inspiration. At least for me. Judging from the group’s newsletter, poetry rules for many of them.

The two hours flew by. I had forgotten what fun it was to sit with other writers. There is another group that meets at the county library in Sherwood Park that I want to check out as well, but I am definitely going to return to The Paragraffers.

Lunch by the River

I met Rob for lunch yesterday down by the river that flows past town. The last time we were there was to watch the fireworks display late in the evening on Canada Day. The weather was nice. Mostly sunny with that nip of fall in the air when the wind would blow. I had dropped Katy off at school earlier, and she expressed only mild disappointment at being left out. Now that she is back in school, even if only for the half day, Rob and I have a bit of free time to play with again, and it’s so nice to be just he and I.

Funny how the day to day routines and demands can so quickly erode time that was once set aside for the simple pleasures. Breakfast on the weekends. Sitting around the dining room table in our robes munching toast and sipping tea until it could officially be brunch. Curled up on the couch after bedtime stories and rituals have settled down the little one, so we can watch The Daily Show together. Running errands as a family that could have been more easily accomplished alone. Catching up on movies via the bookmobile coupled up on the sofa or bed. Even just walking to the bookmobile together on Wednesday evenings, arms around each other is such a joy. Such simple things, and so easily brushed aside at times by reno work and house work and aqua classes and writing groups. And I am not complaining. We make plenty of time to be “just us”, but the real world can only be kept at bay through willing blindness on yourself for just so long. Still it’s hard not to miss some of the early day routines of first being together full-time. Lunch with my husband however is still a must. Even it isn’t in the park. Even if it is just a phone call on days that work demands its due. It’s important to not go the whole day without touching or talking or saying “I love you.”

Yesterday as we snuggled up on the picnic table bench like teenagers playing afternoon hooky, I was struck again by how really blessed I am and how wonderful he is and how much I love him and being with him. I still worry a bit about the “other shoe” and the “wolf at the door”. It’s hard to have been where I have been and seen the things I have seen and not carry a few of
fear ‘s scars, but in the moment, I have no worries. The sun shines. The leaves whisper like small children practicing indoor voices. My love warms my hands between his own. We are in love, and I am happier, I think, than I have ever been.