Having Written

I have my writing group tonight. When we started 14 years ago, the four of us met every month, almost without fail. Back then, I was fresh from the National Writing Project Summer Institute for teachers where the writer within me had awakened. Having the chance to write every month for an audience was intoxicating and fun, and the food, wine, and company were just as potent. 

Since then, our meetings have become a little less frequent, perhaps six or seven a year, and of course this year, the COVID crisis has curtailed our gathering even more; we met once in February and were all set to meet at the end of March when social distancing and lock downs upended that plan along with so many others. We were able to find time to meet outside in late July, though, and this mild November weather has offered the chance to meet outdoors one more time this year.

Over the years, the food, fun, and fellowship haven't lost a glint of their luster, but writing? Well, that's a different story. Obviously, I write regularly, in a few weeks I'll hit 4,000 posts on this site. But while writing every day does build my fluency, I sometimes wonder what the trade off is, and I often ponder that very question in the days leading up to my writing group. The empty screen illuminates my doubts. Where's the passion? What's the point?

But tonight, after a nice dinner and a glass or two of wine, when I pull out whatever I bring to share with the group, and we all adjust the reading glasses that none of us wore when we started, I'll take a deep breath, start to read the words that I put on the page, and I'll remember.