Writing Group: Final Meeting

Our writing group met for the third time. It has begun as a four week tester to see what sort of response there was. I won't make the last one, but hope it continues in the New Year. The older gentleman wasn't there this time. I don't know why, but did wonder. We had two writing activities in the class. The text in red is what we were prompted with and then had several minutes to write. Exercise 1: Long before I was born... candles were the lights on Christmas trees. You would think the hazards that this particular invention was dreamed up with might also have considered the tinder dry branches coupled with the harsh drafts that always accompanied those hauntingly dark and musty castles. As one might suspect the trees caught fire 7 out of 13 times according to local folklore, bringing with it the added bonus of no post Christmas tree clean up. I can't say I was there to witness it, but I suspect that old wives tale of a tree catching on fire during the winter solstice bringing an increase in the birth of male heirs might suggest those trees were not set on fire by an unguarded burst of air, but rather a sneaky slight of hand when no one was there to witness. It was quite mysterious how I came across this knowledge and curious custom at all. Finding myself poking around in an old attic in one of the aforementioned castles I discovered a large trunk with boxes of candles and their holders that clipped onto the tree. Next to it was a scrap book with handwritten dates that documented all the male births that corresponded to all the accidental fires. Exercise 2: Imagine a made up photograph. You are either looking at it or you are in it. Describe where it is? It is outside in a plaza in the city of Florence. Spring time is verging on summer. The sky is blue with the occasional cloud and the pigeons are strutting around in gangs looking for a free handout. Who is in the photograph? A young girl's blurred side is visible from the lower half of her face down to her hips. She is wearing a green fuzzy sweater and a dark tweed skirt. The moment captures her quick swing in a direction as her hair flies up to cover her face. Grabbing her left arm as she turns away is a male arm and hand. His face is not in the shot, but his arm wears an expensive black jacket. What is going on in the background? In the background are tables of people sitting at the outdoor cafes and restaurants chattering amongst themselves. Almost hidden among them is another young woman who is watching the scene between the pair with a look of knowing. What is just out of shot? Just to the right sits an older woman on a bench looking distressed. Her eyes are glassed over and she seems to not be aware of the business in the square. Describe something that is said or something that happens a moment after the shot. A moment later, the young woman grabs her arm away from the man, quickly scans the plaza and bolts as fast as she can towards a side road covered in cobblestone.

Writing Group: Attempt #2

I arrive home from my second go at the writing group which meets every 2 weeks. I open the door and announce to Nigel, "my writing group turned into a fiasco tonight!" The first gathering had given me the impression the whole group was conjured up for asylum seekers as most of the attendees were those hoping to work with them. This didn't leave me with the most welcoming feeling, but I was determined to ride it out. The second meeting I am interested to see that most of the refugee workers have not come back. There are new faces, a few from different European countries, and a few familiar faces. The writer leading the group this week is also new. About half an hour late a "refugee" arrives. Many turn and I can feel the excitement as various individual expectations begin to be met. I drop my head in embarrassment at any sign of unnaturalness this man must feel entering on his own. I also eluded to there being someone in the group I might avoid. This man is back, an older gentleman, who can talk the ear of anyone who makes eye contact for too long. He can hijack the entire group for endless rants. He considers himself an expert in both writing and asylum seekers. I have a sneaking suspicion he is beginning to lose his mind, which endears him to me beyond his endless advice. Similar to last time, he starts out during a quiet writing exercise trying to get the writing teacher to edit some previous works of his in a loud voice. She manages to give minimal input and still concentrate on what she is writing. It seems to be handled well. Once the exercise is over she asks us to share what we have read out loud going around in a circle (starting with me). I read mine and it continues until we get to the older gentleman. "Do you have anything to share?" She asks. "I have more important things to do than write about things like this," he says. We skip him and continued around the circle. The writing teacher pulls out interesting or positive details about each of our writing and expands on it. About 2 people from the end he pipes up again and tells us that obviously he is the only one who is willing to "drop the pebble in the pond" and begins a critical rant of our work, except one. Our subject has been to write about a childhood memory or moment when we had been particularly happy. He points out that relationships are the only thing one should be writing about and that the rest is a throw away. The only one he isn't objecting to is written touchingly about a deceased brother. The rant isn't ending there. It continues on despite people protesting until one intelligent woman says, "you know what would be great? If you could take part in the exercises to illustrate what you are talking about." He doesn't bite. There is absolutely no way he will waste his time writing about useless things. Someone else suggests this is not an editing group, but a beginner and casual writing group. By this point people start talking amongst themselves, tired of the ranting. Someone jumps up and brings out tea and biscuits and I begin chatting with an interpreter from Austria who is sitting next to me. This series of photos is taken while waiting late at night at a bus stop in Sheffield. I am not aware until we are all finished and putting our jackets on that a row has broken out between this gentleman and the writing instructor. I catch the end of his shouted line, "well maybe if you had experienced the things I have..." as the writing instructor abruptly gets up and leaves with the rest of us. She mutters under her breath that it is normal to have giant egos in writing groups, but that she doesn't normally handle it in this way. I leave and wander in the cold night to the bus stop. As I wait there I think about this man and why he has come. I wonder if he is lonely and needs to be around people despite his difficult personality. If that is the case, it would really hurt him to be told not to come. If he is lonely would he recognize it in himself? He is undoubtedly a quirky personality. I like a bit of quirk and find that most people I initially avoid endear themselves to me because of that oddness. I do still wonder if his mind is going as well.

Story Swapping

I live in Sheffield and one of the hardest things for me in this city is that I have very few friends. I work alone in my studio and try to go to art openings, but the Sheffield art crowd seem a hard lot to crack. I was even hoping that working in a warehouse, with a reported 70 other artists (where are they all?) would naturally lead to interactions and friendships. These are few and far between. It is rare to run into someone. Last week I spotted a leaflet for a new group called "Swapping Stories". The description sounded like a writing group. It welcomed all newcomers to Sheffield, along with asylum seekers, and anyone wanting to tell or write stories amongst the group. I went to the first gathering and there was indeed an interesting mix of people. I like interesting mixes because you are guaranteed awkward moments, someone to talk to, someone who will talk to you, someone who will talk AT you, and someone to avoid that winds up endearing themselves to you so much that you eventually seek them out. How can you go wrong when you throw cookies and organic apples in on top of it all? As we went around the circle introducing ourselves it became clear that most of the people were there because they worked with or were interested in refugees or asylum seekers and wanted to help facilitate them into the group. Many of the conversations continually veered back to the topic of why there were no refugees or asylum seekers who showed up. There was a growing feeling in me that the invitation for newcomers to Sheffield was a bit of a filler and not the intended aim of the group. If that is true, that is too bad. I remember my dad's advice when we were growing up: if you have your eyes set on some goal and are working really hard to get towards and some other great opportunity comes along ...take it. You can always go back to your original goal, but the new opportunity might not present itself again.

A Lady Writing, Johannes Vermeer

Here are some of the short writing exercises I did in the group. A Description of Your First Memory including all the Senses. When I scan back to my first memory it must be one of the few I have before any of my sisters are born. I sit on the outside steps of a creaking wooden communal Victorian house on Charles Street. My doll who is clutched in my hands is as big as I am. She is plastic with that sort of thick matted hair that smelled a bit musty. There are adults sitting on the stairs around me, who I will later learn are called hippies and street people. To me they are all the people that live together with me in this big house. The people who concern me most are my dad (who is sitting next to me), my mom (who is standing on the sidewalk with a camera aimed at us), and the old man in the room next to ours who gives me sweet candies that melt into sharp shards on my tongue if I suck them too long. The sun is bright and my mom yells, "smile". I glance up and squint at the bright sun. To make sure everyone is posing appropriately I look at my doll, point my mom out and explain to her that she is being photographed. SNAP! That moment is frozen in my mind and in my childhood photo album. I think I am about two and a half. A Memory of an Event from Childhood (for which I ran out of time) I was 10 years old when Teresa came to live with us. It was explained to me that her parents weren't able to take care of her or her sister. Where is her sister, I asked? With her grandparents. Why can't her parents look after her? Because she was found alone and her parents had taken too many drugs. Why can't she stay with her grandparents too? We don't know. Teresa was 6 years old with blond hair and blue eyes. To make things confusing my 7 year old sister was also named Teresa and had blond hair and blue eyes. We had to call them by their first and middle names. Teresa Lynn was my real sister and Teresa Louise was my temporary sister. The three of us spent our time competing for our youngest sister's giggles and attention: Laura, 3 years old with brown hair and blue eyes who grew to hate being the centre of attention.

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, Johannes Vermeer