Writing, for me, is a solitary affair. I like it that way. I like that all the decisions are mine, and until I actually show it to anyone, the entire process is mine. There have, however, been times when I've wondered whether it would speed things up a bit to get some early and earnest feedback from relative strangers. Then I remember the time I actually did so and breathe a sigh of relief. I do not need to go through that again. I can make my mistakes away from the judgement of others. This is the story of the time I joined a writing group.
This was ten years or so ago. At this point I was going through a fairly productive period of writing short stories. I'd get back from work and hammer out a thousand words or so, then the next evening review what I'd written and hammer out another thousand. Three thousand seemed to be the magic number for me. Anything less was a tough exercise in terseness. Anything more and I could feel the plot getting away from me. I submitted some of them to various publications accepting submissions with some success, but choosing the right places to submit to became increasingly difficult. At the time I'd been using meetup.com to find like-minded people for my other hobbies, and so I thought, why not join a writers group?
There are many reasons why not, chief amongst them being that the idea of reading my writing aloud in front of people feels like an anxiety dream. But then my rational side told me that this is a fear I should overcome. I should feel confident about reading my words. Didn't I want other people to hear them?
Not wanting to overthink matters, I found a group meeting upstairs in a pub in Hackney and put it in my calendar. I thought nothing more of it until a week later, when I found myself upstairs in said pub, wondering what on earth I'd been thinking.
The pub itself was nice enough and typical for the area. High ceilings, wooden floors, and consequent hubbub that can be challenging for ageing ears. Upstairs was thankfully quieter. The general idea was that everyone wrote whatever they wanted, whether it was something they were already working on or something just for the night, then they would read some of it to the group. I chose to write some more of a short story I was already working on, which was about an electric pig moving to London. It was very much in the mould of write what you know.
I realised I had made a massive mistake about halfway through one of the other writer's reading of their stuff. The first reading had been a little confusing, with the writer not so much introducing their protagonist as assuming everyone already knew who they were. The second reader did the same, and their story was also apparently about a doctor. For the duration of this story I wondered whether I'd bumbled my way into some sort of medical practitioners' confessional group, but shortly afterwards the truth was plain. I had accidentally joined a Doctor Who fanfiction writers' group.
You may be wondering exactly what is wrong with this. The answer is nothing. It just wasn't what I had in mind when I had joined. Embarrassed by the mistake, and by how long it had taken me to realise it, I didn't feel I could just make my apologies and leave. So while I waited my turn, I frantically rewrote my story in my head. As far as editing techniques go, I found it far too stressful to recommend.
Time ran out, and I cautiously announced I would be reading from my work-in-progress, Doctor Who and the Electric Pig. This was met with some wry smiles, but my audience's faces soon turned sour as it became obvious that I was making it up as I went along.
A million years later, I realised I had run out of words, and the group was looking at me with a strange sort of kind curiosity.
"And that," I said, "is all I have so far."
One of the group, a tall man wearing an ill-judged fedora, cleared his throat. He had read a story I had initially thought was an allegory for the state of the NHS, but as it turned out, someone or something really was flinging patients out of hospital windows. "I'm a little lost," he asked, "what did the Doctor have to do with your story? Had he made the electric pig, like K9?"
I didn't see what mountains had to do with it, but I nodded anyway.
"You do realise," he continued gently, "that this is a Doctor Who fan fiction writing club?"
There wasn't much point in continuing the pretence. "I do now. But I don't recall the advert saying so."
"It's clearly called the Rassilon Writer's Society," said a squat man wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt indignantly.
"I told you that would be misleading," said the tall man.
"It wasn't my fault!" the squat man objected. He pointed at a woman who had her arms folded and was scowling at him. "It was her idea."
"Bollocks mate," the woman said, and laughed. She pointed at another of the group, the arms of her huge baggy purple jumper hanging like a bird's wings. "It was her idea." She was pointing to an older woman who was nervously sitting on her own hands.
"You see?" the squat man asked his tall friend. "I told you this would happen if we let in people from the Blake's 7 group!"
I mumbled something about needing the loo and sped off down the stairs, buoyed by the squabbling behind me. As I left the building, with the pub door swinging forcefully shut, I breathed in the fresh night air and considered that there were worse things than solitary hobbies.
