From its beginning in August of 2012 this will be the 571st posting of ‘Stones In The Road’. Let’s see; 484 weeks by 7 days . . . if my math is right that would come out about one entry every six days. When I was active with Peninsula Writers, my writing group in Michigan, we met monthly which included two retreats per year. Within that framework and also informally, we devoured each other’s work. I got regular, constructive, critical feedback on what I was writing. At a week long, summer retreat I shared a cabin with two friends who both wrote novels. When we exchanged work, they gave me a chapter at a time to glean from while I could only manage an offering of a page or two. That seemed unfair as I read slow and in most cases, need more than one repetition. When I begged, “Which pages do I need to critique?” they looked at me bewildered. “All of them of course. . . why do you ask?” After several years it had become canonized ritual for me to take them down that path. Like a responsive reading in church, “. . . of course, why do you ask?” followed by my, “What you have here requires 12-14 pages. If I can’t get my stuff down in two pages, I run out of words.” We would take our homework off to a corner and start our reading. When I was half way into the first piece I found them playing cards in the kitchen.
That was 25 years ago but I still like to keep my range down to a thousand, not over 1200 words. As it turns out, that’s about as much as the blog reader can stand. My amigo Phil’s story plot was about an old couple, both suffering health issues. The ultimate plot-destination would have them intentionally sinking their sailboat on Lake Michigan, going down with it together. I complained every time; “The writing is fine but the story wears me out. If I want to feel hopeless and beat up I can go lie down in the road. ”
On the other hand, Rich’s novel was set in the Great Depression. It was about riding the rails with a clever tramp, about hobo jungles, railroad bulls and train yards. I enjoyed the ride, knew the story by heart even before he sent it to his publisher. Ironically, I don’t remember anything about what I was writing at the time, preoccupied with processing the moment rather than creating fiction. Maybe prophetic, Phil suffered a heart attack and died a few years later. Rich and I are still tight friends, we get together when I recycle through Grand Rapids, MI.
I do miss the critical input from fellow writers. When I revisit old stuff from years past I see it with new eyes. You can get a feel for your own evolution but it’s not the same. Writers groups tend to have a strong, vertical hierarchy where published writers and longstanding members condescend, often with scathing red-ink-baths, knowingly aware of blood-bath imagery. Peninsula Writers never did that. Our operating model, written into the constitution, discouraged insults and negative comments. We favored asking probing questions, “. . . how did you, why did you, did you consider?” noting what worked rather than what didn’t. There was an abiding camaraderie from newest wannabe to the most accomplished veteran and everybody’s work improved. Other groups I’ve explored felt competitive, they neither shared nor encouraged an uplifting attitude.
I tried writing fiction but years later, rediscover the unfinished first chapter right where I left it, buried in a folder, misfiled with recipes. Maybe there is a thread of subtle insight in this short story. I got in and out of it in three sentences.
That was 25 years ago but I still like to keep my range down to a thousand, not over 1200 words. As it turns out, that’s about as much as the blog reader can stand. My amigo Phil’s story plot was about an old couple, both suffering health issues. The ultimate plot-destination would have them intentionally sinking their sailboat on Lake Michigan, going down with it together. I complained every time; “The writing is fine but the story wears me out. If I want to feel hopeless and beat up I can go lie down in the road. ”
On the other hand, Rich’s novel was set in the Great Depression. It was about riding the rails with a clever tramp, about hobo jungles, railroad bulls and train yards. I enjoyed the ride, knew the story by heart even before he sent it to his publisher. Ironically, I don’t remember anything about what I was writing at the time, preoccupied with processing the moment rather than creating fiction. Maybe prophetic, Phil suffered a heart attack and died a few years later. Rich and I are still tight friends, we get together when I recycle through Grand Rapids, MI.
I do miss the critical input from fellow writers. When I revisit old stuff from years past I see it with new eyes. You can get a feel for your own evolution but it’s not the same. Writers groups tend to have a strong, vertical hierarchy where published writers and longstanding members condescend, often with scathing red-ink-baths, knowingly aware of blood-bath imagery. Peninsula Writers never did that. Our operating model, written into the constitution, discouraged insults and negative comments. We favored asking probing questions, “. . . how did you, why did you, did you consider?” noting what worked rather than what didn’t. There was an abiding camaraderie from newest wannabe to the most accomplished veteran and everybody’s work improved. Other groups I’ve explored felt competitive, they neither shared nor encouraged an uplifting attitude.
I tried writing fiction but years later, rediscover the unfinished first chapter right where I left it, buried in a folder, misfiled with recipes. Maybe there is a thread of subtle insight in this short story. I got in and out of it in three sentences.
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