A lonely business...

When I had initially thought about starting a blog, I searched my local library's catalog for any books that might offer me some guidance. I happened to stumble upon a bunch of books that were about learning how to write books. I find it kind of strange that there are books out there about how to write books, but I was willing to take any free advice that came my way and have since checked out several of the genre.

One of the common tips among such books is that I should find myself a writing group, some fellow peers to read and critique my work. So I finally got around to google-ing "Writing Groups Grand Rapids" and lo and behold, the first hit was for a writing group at my local library branch. They even had a fancy web site and everything. So I RSVP'ed for the next meeting, that upcoming Tuesday, and sat down at the kitchen table to write something.

I have a tendency to commit to parties, get-togethers, and outings way ahead of the scheduled event and then when the event finally arrives, I find myself scrounging for any excuse to get out it. And that Tuesday was no different.

I had worked overtime at work that day, so I didn't have any time in the afternoon to get errands done. I had a headache. I had to make dinner. I hadn't been to the gym in a week. I had laundry to fold. I had something written, but it wasn't typed up. I already had plans for Wednesday and Thursday nights, so when was I supposed to have time to relax anyway? Besides, "Wipeout" was on TV and there a bottle of wine with my name on it.

I decided to go to the meeting in the end. I figured if I was hoping to make some connections in this group, whether they be professional or personal, I shouldn't start off with the bad impression of being a flake. Besides, only two other women had RSVP'ed on the site, so how long could the meeting possibly last?

When I arrived at the library a few minutes after the scheduled starting time (I didn't want to be the first one to arrive and sit around awkwardly waiting for others), I went to the information desk and asked the lady there, "There's supposed to be a writing group..."

"Through the double doors and down the hallway on the left. Just follow the voices," she directed with a smile.

I wandered through the double doors and tiptoed down the hallway on the left and did indeed hear quite a few voices. I poked my head in a room of quite a few people all sitting around banquet tables that had been pushed together, all involved in conversation and not stopping to notice the new face that had appeared in the doorway. I took a seat in the only available chair left and quickly realized that I was one of two present who were under the age of 50 and one of three present who were under the age of 75. Oh, God, I thought to myself, this is going to be a colossal waste of time.

The only other person who appeared to be under 30 was apparently the one running the show. He started off by explaining the process of how their meetings ran for us new attendees. One by one, we were all to read our piece aloud and then everyone would have a chance to voice their opinions about the piece. He said he'd ask for a volunteer to go first, and they'd move clockwise around the table after that. I must have been still recovering from the shock of how many elderly people were present when he gave that last directive, because when he asked for volunteers to start things off, the man to my left said he would go first, which meant that I would be last in the group to go. That bottle of wine of mine would have to wait for another night.

The man to my left was clearly over 70 with gray hair and a plaid shirt and his skinny legs popped out from under what I am going to call golf shorts, because he looks like he had just come from the course. He didn't have much to read, just a few interesting ideas he had for magazine articles, but he actually had good comments throughout the night for the rest of the group and he was armed with a red pen which he used to correct grammar mistakes on the printouts people passed around. Perhaps he was a teacher of sorts in his earlier life?

The second man to go was the man leading the group, and he read a part of a novel that he was writing, which was decent enough, though the group still had plenty of criticism to dish out.

The third man was middle-aged with just a touch of gray hair starting on the edges, but he still had plenty of hair left and wore a black t-shirt and jeans. He looked like perhaps he rode a motorcycle or played in a rock band. He read for us a rhyming tale about a fantastical world called Dullardsville and he spoke with a soothing voice that hypnotized me and left me struggling to stay focused with a critical eye on the words in front of me. It seemed the whole group got completely caught up in his story and all we could do was sing his praises when he was finished. Eventually, I offered a comment that he seemed to find very helpful, which made me glow with pride, because really, the piece seemed positively flawless in my eyes. He was appreciative of all our approval, confessing that he had spent eight years working on the piece as a whole. We were all certain that something wonderful would come of it and that all his work would not be in vain.

Granted, that was indeed a hard act to follow, and the elderly gentlemen who went next definitely disappointed me. He had a book proposal that he passed around, basically telling the entire life story of a man, his time in the military, his marriage, tragedy he suffered, recovery he obtained, love he obtained again, but then another downfall suffered leading to him killing a man and on and on and on. And the book, already written, wasn't even enough words to constitute an actual novel! It was too short. How can one tell the entire life story of a man and not even exceed 50,000 words? Plus, he parodied his title to a Dickens novel, which one should never do because readers will compare your work to the legendary author. But he had to be at least 80 and I'm sure the book had taken a long time and I really didn't feel like crushing the poor man's dreams, so I kept quiet during that critique.

An elderly woman who was working on an alphabet book went next, and she was followed by another woman who was trying to write the sequel to a classic fairy tale but failed miserably at it. When she finished reading her piece, the whole room was so silent, you could honestly hear the crickets chirping outside the window. The elderly man sitting next to me had fallen asleep on his hand. The man who wrote the absolutely brilliant piece was the only one who tried to find something helpful to say, and in the middle of his comments, the man sitting next to me started awake and, immediately aware of what he did, cleared his throat and tried to jump into the conversation while I did my best to stifle my laughter.

Then finally it was turn. I read my piece much more quickly than I intended, which I hoped people didn't mistake for nerves, even though it probably was nerves. When I finished, the alphabet-book woman smiled at me and say it was lovely, which warmed my heart and brought a smile to my face. Everyone had really nice comments, but they were not without criticism. I had told Chris before I left that I had written a piece about Grandpa's funeral, which was partially true, but really the entire piece was about him. However, people thought I presented him as impolite and self-centered and the alphabet-book woman asked with concern, "is everything all right between you two?" So I definitely must work on that, for my husband is the farthest thing from impolite and self-centered.

With my piece all wrapped up, the meeting was over and we all made our way out to our cars. The man who wrote the brilliant piece (I believe his name was John and I had learned he worked at the local newspaper for 40 years) walked next to me and asked, "So you've been writing for a long time, huh?

I tried not to blush. I said I was trying to pick it up again and that it was a big complement for him to assume such a thing.

"It can be a lonely business," he stated as he climbed into his red hatchback and gave me a wave. It was apparent to me that he knew a thing or two about the lonely business of writing.

You could be, like, a writer.

"Write a book," my brother said from his comfy spot in my new Ikea lounger across the living room. "Just write a book already," he repeated, as it is was the obvious solution all along.

"Seriously, Jen, what is it you want out of life?" he asked.

"I want to be a literature professor, I want to open a dance-slash-exercise studio for women, and I want to write a novel."

"Okay, so start with the one that's the most attainable."

I didn't have a PhD, I wasn't a professional dancer, and I definitely wasn't a professional writer, so I really wasn't sure which one he was suggesting.

He continued on as if I had smacked my hand against my forehead and proclaimed, "OF COURSE!" "If you write for an hour a day," he advised, "think how fast you could write a book."

"Write a book" seemed to be my brother's answer to all of life's tough questions. He had been saying the same thing to my mother since he discovered that she was hiding a 20-year-old manuscript up in the attic. Nevermind that our mother wasn't a writer, never had been, and the manuscript was probably 50 pages in total double-spaced. He believed finishing her "book" would solve all her financial problems, let her quit her job, give her closure with her dead mother and may even help her meet a sophisticated businessman who loved to travel to live out the rest of her life with. IF ONLY SHE'D FINISH THE BOOK.

"You're sitting on a gold mine," he'd tell her, "If only you'd finish the book."

I wanted to tell him to sit down for an hour every day and try to write a novel and see how easy he thought it was then.

Besides that, I wasn't a writer, either. I got my degree in literature, which you would think would mean that I could write, but really, all it means is I can read. The only things I have experience writing about are those things that I read. To actually write something creative that was worthy enough (and long enough--good gracious!) to be published was a whole new ballgame entirely.

Go ahead and disregard the fact that I'd been writing since I was six, typing away stories on my aunt's commodore 64 all summer long, stories about stealing freshly baked banana cream pies and taking adventurous walks in haunted forests, then printing out my literary masterpieces on her tractor-feed printer paper, proudly creasing and ripping the edges off before stapling the multiple pages together. It's astonishing that I, a writer with so much experience, a multiple-time Young Authors Award winner, was now, in her late 20s, cowering at the idea of writing a novel, not when I had had so much promise.

But it was true, as sad as it was. When I became old enough to be self-conscious and when my teen years started to resemble fantasy fiction more than actual life, my creativity disappeared with my pigtails and different-colored socks.

A whole ten months passed before my brother brought it all up again. My grandfather had just passed away and I had written an essay to read at his funeral, my own little eulogy of sorts, a last chance to say all the things I've always wanted to say. Well, it turns out most of the family got a chance to read it a whole two days beforehand because my proud mother, who believes everything I write is pure gold, e-mailed it to all my aunts who then forwarded it onto my cousins. The night before the funeral when we were all gathered for his showing, family members kept coming up to me saying how wonderful my speech was before I even had a chance to speak it. My brother's girlfriend even had already read it, to which she commented, "You could be, like, a writer."

"Thank you!" my brother belted out, throwing his hands into the air. That was only what he had been trying to tell me all along.

So fine, you win. Here I am, giving it a try, testing the waters to see if I'm any good at this writing thing and whether or not my brother was right all along.