When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.Day 16. So appreciative of all the comments and insights surrounding our work. You know that one of the things I love about writing is that you do it alone and it’s lonely. I’ve never joined a book club or writers group (even though I am aware that this blog has been home to different writers groups over the years and they all make me completely happy). Still, I discovered writing as a child, and all through my teenage years and adult life, its delicious narcissistic promise of self involvement has never let me down. I don’t just go to write, I go to be alone, to steep, to steal myself away. To enjoy the exquisite pleasure of my own company. So yes, this sweet little community is fucking with my head. I did my dirty thirty.
How about you? Do you need help getting up the hill?
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Betsy Lerner 
I definitely write to be alone, to be queen of my universe. But on days like today (91 shitty words in ungrammatical sentences—perish the thought!) I needed my writing friend to talk me off the ledge. (Thank you, Downith!)
You’re welcome, but it’s a mutual nudge society as you well know.
I’ve been on my feet since 6:30 this morning and I’ve dealt with hundreds of people: on the phone, at my desk, via text and email and Teams (which I loathe, btw). I’m peopled out. My back hurts and my eye is twitching. I found a hole in my cashmere sweater. I’m going to eat half an edible and a piece of toast, and then I’m going to bed.
I did my thirty in the wee hours, however, so don’t come at me.
I don’t just close myself up in my office to write either. I go to spend time with myself, to steep in my thoughts, and to mull over the whelm of the day. Then I’ll be ready to do my thirty. It will be tomorrow when I finish, but I’ll go to sleep feeling like I accomplished something great! I’m good, I got this. Thanks! Good night my lovelies. God bless us, every one! ❤️
“How about you? Do you need help getting up the hill?”
Writing is that strange thing — an almost compulsive form of communication engaged in by people who must be alone to do it — an ultimate attempt at controlling the world by retreating to a private world to spin out other private worlds to share in public. How could I do it alone? How could I not? I shun everyone and need everyone. If someone were to tell me, “No one’s ever going to read a line you write, give it up,” I would say, “You are wrong — they will.” But how could I possibly know? I can’t. It’s a matter of faith. Misplaced? How could I know that? How could I care? Time to write.
I don’t, not really, although I have found it “okay” to get together with a group of like-minded people and talk craft.
There is this one “writer’s group” I’m a part of, and it was formed because of a membership with an organization. Someone in that group looked up in the directory to see who lived near the Raleigh area – and sent out an invite to meet occasionally. We’ve been doing that, and it has been fun, but they are a very laid back group – and we don’t read our stuff. For that reason, I like it.
Just did my dirty-thirty-four. Three paragraphs plus one line. My butt is getting restless. I need thinking time. It’s got to simmer. Then I’ll hop back on the ferris wheel. That’s what gets me up the hill.
I was a member of writer’s group years ago and quickly realized I liked reading my material more than listening to someone else share the pieces they had written. It wasn’t that I didn’t like their stuff it was just great to get a reaction to what I had written because having spent so much time alone, with the words rattling around in my head, it was nice to hear the reaction of an audience which exists outside my persona.
Once I got a steady writing gig I didn’t need the group, or so I thought. Funny how wrong you can be when you think you’re so ‘write.’
Took the red eye from San Jose, CA to JFK to Sarasota FL. Now, late in the day and BLEARY, I am doing the damn 30. I think I am, anyway. First I had to tell you guys about it.
I wonder if you mean “fucking with your head” in a good way? I think a lot about how much or little of a writing community I want and why. Also, is it okay if writing is just therapy and no one winds up reading it? If a tree falls…etc. Isn’t writing supposed to be communication? I go back and back to Betsy’s great book, The Forest For the Trees which talks about the writer need to “translate his version of the world into words so that he might be understood.” But to understand yourself? Or so that others will understand you? On a lighter note, I just suggested to my foodie teenage daughter that we make roasted rather than mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving and she told me I was “a disgrace to the family” hahahaha. If I write that down, maybe it will at least entertain her later.