-Whenever eight writers meet-
Whenever two writers meet and acknowledge one another, some unmistakably primitive contest for superiority has to occur. Like a pair of tomcats on neutral territory, they must freeze and match wills momentarily, even under friendly circumstances like a peer-review group meeting.
I joined one this week. We are a creative writing professor (the moderator), an environmental cleanup expert, a poetry-spewing brace of merlot-drinking sisters, a very loquacious high school teacher, who showed up late after programming her VCR to record "Lost," a retired environmental cleanup expert (weird, huh?) a landscaping English major (there but for the grace of god go I), and me.
I've joined several other such groups in the past. All of them imploded in less than six months, but I was generally pleased with all of the sessions, at least in the beginning. Even when I disagreed with the critics, or felt they missed the point entirely, that too, was a signal that I needed to get out of my own head and clarify. TOO ABSTRACT, one of my greatest professors regularly sliced into my essays in red ink. I think he still would - the fault is in my own mind, and is not easily dispelled.
Blame it on the Victorian literature I consumed like almond m&m's as a student. My mind's voice sounds like an anemic fop visiting the moors in unfashionable breeches. (Rest assured, in real life I get plenty of exercise, even if it took me an embarrassingly long time to saw apart firewood at my parent's place. And the axe might as well be a baseball bat that hasn't been sharpened since the Phillies won the World Series.)
I mention it now to demonstrate the gulf between my antiquated inner voice, and that of the moderator/creative writing professor, whose primary influence is Dave Eggers.
Jesus.
In another writing group, many years ago, I received great acclaim after several weeks of awkward silence. The reason? Someone misread my lyric tribute to tea as a homage to recreational drug use.
Most unseemly, but it gave me some mad respect from my bitchass classmates, for the rest of the term.
I joined one this week. We are a creative writing professor (the moderator), an environmental cleanup expert, a poetry-spewing brace of merlot-drinking sisters, a very loquacious high school teacher, who showed up late after programming her VCR to record "Lost," a retired environmental cleanup expert (weird, huh?) a landscaping English major (there but for the grace of god go I), and me.
I've joined several other such groups in the past. All of them imploded in less than six months, but I was generally pleased with all of the sessions, at least in the beginning. Even when I disagreed with the critics, or felt they missed the point entirely, that too, was a signal that I needed to get out of my own head and clarify. TOO ABSTRACT, one of my greatest professors regularly sliced into my essays in red ink. I think he still would - the fault is in my own mind, and is not easily dispelled.
Blame it on the Victorian literature I consumed like almond m&m's as a student. My mind's voice sounds like an anemic fop visiting the moors in unfashionable breeches. (Rest assured, in real life I get plenty of exercise, even if it took me an embarrassingly long time to saw apart firewood at my parent's place. And the axe might as well be a baseball bat that hasn't been sharpened since the Phillies won the World Series.)
I mention it now to demonstrate the gulf between my antiquated inner voice, and that of the moderator/creative writing professor, whose primary influence is Dave Eggers.
Jesus.
In another writing group, many years ago, I received great acclaim after several weeks of awkward silence. The reason? Someone misread my lyric tribute to tea as a homage to recreational drug use.
Most unseemly, but it gave me some mad respect from my bitchass classmates, for the rest of the term.
posted by Benedict | 11:21 PM
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