Yeah, yeah, yeah...so I'm super excited about my new writing group.
So sue me. So sue me for making friends with writers. ;)
It's Friday night and I can finally unwind with words. I've spent an entire week lugging industrial versions of rocks about, stacking them on carts with faulty casters...but there's a window. Tuesday night I got on the N line after dinner and went back out toward the water, deep in anticipation but not so much so that I scared myself out of the commitment to myself. And there, just on the lee side of the Embarcadero, I wandered into a cafe, ordered a kiwi Italian soda, and sat with 11 other people who believed in the same craft that I did. We all sat differently and held different devotion quotients--some of us with Nat's recommendation of fountain pen and notebook, some with ballpoint and legal pad, the majority with laptops (with the internet access turned off to avoid the distraction). There were brief introductory remarks--"we won't be reading in this group, folks; just writin', non-stop, no stopping, for an hour"--and then we tore into it. Some ate and drank and paused. I drank every twenty minutes to rest the hand, my penmanship looping sloppier and sloppier and slippier like I was cooking something REALLY TASTY, and my mind busted loose and floated over the river-bed on its own. The current took me. I worked on my short story for about 45 minutes of the hour. The other fifteen was giving my mind a little outlet of the distractions, and then bringing myself back after the break.
I lost page count that night. Dated them, but didn't count them.
I have never felt so validated, vindicated, LIKE A FRICKIN' REAL WRITER. There is no reading out loud here. You just sit as Nat taught and you keep the pen going until your hand is ready to play a stunt double for Rocky (somebody cue the theme, please!), and then you wrap that claw around the soda glass and let it ease while you sip for replenishment. Move over, Moveable Feast! Fuck your oysters and white wine! I have Kiwi Italian Soda and I am not afraid to drip the condensation from the outside of the glass to my pants as I drink, 'cause the art comes first.
I'm a writer writer writer writer writer righter riter rider writer writer writer writer writer righter riter rider writer writer writer writer writer righter riter rider writer writer writer writer writer righter riter rider...
Trying out the Oakland version on Monday and then will be back for the SF version on Tuesday...
The old columns of classroom support me and hold up my hopes. Write well, dear reader. :)
For I am in the city of San Francisco and I am finally doing what I came here for.