It's true, dear readers: I've been considering, for some time, leaving a writing group I've been in for literally over three decades. I had left the group previously for a couple of years due to a flare-up of a chronic illness, and then returned. The group welcomed me back wholeheartedly. I felt I was doing well, for a while. I brought in my rough draft about Asha Veil's murder, a book proposal for the same. But something had changed in the group on a very deep level, and I knew it.
Originally this group was the most rollicking, productive, aware--dare I even say the word juicy--writing group anyone would want. There were poems and more poems shared and critiqued, short stories, entire books going through and worked over little by little. We were like a cluster of shooting stars. I can say with certainty that I would never have become the writer I am today without these women.
But the years have not been kind to the writing group and, even with the addition of new members, gradually began to lose its spark. People have more money now, became more comfortable, were living more settled lives; the writing of many women became something I could no longer relate to, nor felt I was doing well at critiquing. Catholicism, a religion I long ago left due to its oppressive nature, had taken deep root in some of the women. I felt like a heretic, with my pentagram on a charm necklace and my own spiritual beliefs. Still, when I left our sessions, I felt rejuvenated, happy: I wanted to sit down right away and put pen to paper. Sometimes after the group meeting, I wrote late into the night.
Cutting to the chase, our group had a very successful poetry reading at Bookshop Santa Cruz earlier this month. The audience was large and attentive, and I feel that it really showcased all the strengths of the group. It meant much to me, as I haven't written a poem since my mother died eleven years ago, as if the umbilical cord of my poetry was severed along with her life. I had the wonderful experience at the reading of strangers coming up to me after the reading and praising my work. I felt like a poet again. It was a wonderful night of solidarity and good writing.
Prior to this, uncomfortable things happened at the group meeting just before the reading. These frankly were like a shovel of manure on the excitement of the upcoming event. One of those experiences involved the self-appointed "leader" of the group smugly announcing that changes were afoot if the group were to survive. We'd been through this before: someone would get into a snit over something, the self-styled leader would propose changes, we'd smooth out some rough spots, and all would continue on, generally in a new and improved manner.
But not this time.
The day after the reading at Bookshop Santa Cruz, the group chimed in via email about what the experience had meant to us. That was a good exchange. Then the self-appointed leader--a woman who has been problematic to me and others over the years, treating me well and kindly at one turn, then with prickliness at other times, unpredictably--issued some ground rules for the group which we would discuss at the next meeting. These included not socializing as much before the actual critiquing, and some other things I've forgotten (all quite reasonable). Curiously, and prominently, the list included something about people who do not host the group, and bringing "snacks" as opposed to a dinner item of some kind.
This last bit needs an aside explanation: the group rotates homes to meet in. Some of us (including me) really don't have an appropriate home for a group to meet consistently (mine is in the boondocks and I've a young child). The group brings food to each meeting, and everyone contributes what they can. There has NEVER--I can say with certainty--been any "rules" about what to bring. We enjoy what's there...or so I thought, lol...
Back to the story: shortly thereafter, I wrote to the "leader" of the group and suggested some things to perhaps help the group become more productive. I don't remember what. Trying to be helpful has occasionally got me into hot water, and it was no different this time.
I received a salvo from the "leader," who said she was emailing me because I alone was doing something which had been deemed a problem. She then ragged on me for bringing "snacks" to the group instead of a dinner item, and that my food contribution seemed an afterthought (which it never has been, but I wasn't about to try and convince her of that). She said that those who don't host the group were expected to contribute more food than others (a rule which I didn't know about). She went on with more of my perceived failures to bring "nice" and "homemade" food to the group, then ended the email abruptly, like slamming a phone receiver down.
I wrote her back, apologized, said that my food contribution (which ran to almonds, olives, fruit salad, etc), if inadequate, was a social gaffe rather than deliberate, and that I would remedy things by bringing more substantial food to the group, then sent off the email. My response was kind, polite, and hopefully clear.
My email was met with another salvo from the "leader." She ragged on me again that she had told me about this years ago (if she said that, I don't remember and I'm honestly sure she never did) and nothing had changed. She said that the group had, a few times, raised the topic of the inadequate food I brought to the group. There may have been another email along those lines from her as well, but I've no desire to go back and look. At the end of the email, she asked me for my thoughts.
I very much wanted to point out her peevish, nasty nitpicking, and the fact that I didn't remember her telling me anything at all about my food offerings. Nor did I put forth the question as to why the group had not, in all the years I'd been with them, said a word to me about the food I brought. But I replied politely, telling her yet again I would remedy the situation. She wrote back and said "all of us (in the group) looked forward to this change."
At that point, I realized I was never going back to the group. I knew I could not, for one thing, cook a meal for these women, ever. The food would be created for people who had resented something I was apparently, and unknowingly, doing and hadn't bothered to tell me, but instead used it as a topic of gossip among themselves--for years! Why would I ever want to nourish people who did such insulting things? And why would I allow people like that to critique my writing, ever again?
I also knew that whatever I cooked wouldn't be good enough for these women. I could cater a ten-course meal and now I understood that they'd find something wrong with it. Whatever I brought would become another item for behind-my-back gossip and criticism. I realized I clearly been at the bottom of the pecking order for a long time and was likely to remain there. So, after deliberating over the weekend, talking to two close friends (who encouraged me to leave) and weighing the choice very carefully, I wrote a group email with what I hoped was a brief, kind goodbye which expressed gratitude for the considerable help and support the group had given me over the years. My words were real and from my heart. And all the sentiments were genuine.
Readers, I'm going to be sixty years old on my next birthday. There is a reckoning that comes at this stage of life. I realize that whatever years I have are precious and I need to use wisely whatever time I've got left. My sister, who died ten years ago, had always encouraged me to leave after the two elders of the group passed away, that she felt many of the other women were toxic and she saw me running around trying to please them, to "get" them to care about me. I never wanted to admit my sister was right about this, but she was.
After my goodbye went out, one woman wrote me a beautiful email and encouraged me to finish my books, and that she would miss me very much. I wrote back and asked her to stay in touch. Another woman wrote me and kindly said similar things.
From the self-styled "leader" and other members: crickets.
And I don't care, at all.
I was pleased to see a critique group and a poetry group which meet at the library here in Santa Cruz. No idea of how these are, but I plan to attend and check them out. Whatever possibilities exist for me in terms of a group, I'll try. And I have a fiction writing group that meets once a month: all encouraging, all wonderful people, with a spectrum of ages and interests.
It was a hard decision to leave, dear readers, and yet an easy one, at the last.
And so it is.
