“I love our writer’s group!” more than one of us has exclaimed, more than once. We have managed to stay together several years, adding a few members as our “originals” find themselves traveling or dealing with personal crises. And we’ve been successful. Several of us have published books on very diverse subjects: women in science, writing, healing walks, and novels. There were times when I have longed for another fiction writer, and, being who we are—honest, forthright, and supportive women—others have agreed with me. So, just two months ago the third fiction writer came into our group of essayists, memoirists, journalists, and novelists.
Before I tell you why I think the dynamics of the group work so well, let me indicate what I feel are the chief functions of any writer’s group.
Starting at the most basic level: a good group saves you from embarrassment. Have you every written “grizzly” for “grisly” or “capitol” for “capital”? We have. Then there’s that description of actions (or in one case in our group, scientific experiments) that bewilder the reader sometimes even unto hilarity. Finally, have you ever had a bad hair day, without noticing that you were having one? A group can help you give your writing a close look in the mirror when necessary.
A second function, and people like me need this one, is setting deadlines. You pledge to have something written for the group to critique, and you make every effort to send a good, clear, well-written piece. It’s like being in school, only more adult.
A third function, which is connected to the avoiding-embarrassment factor: it makes your writing better. Hearing all those voices about your piece drives home what is good and what is not so good about what you have put on paper. I can’t imagine having written my second novel without my group.
Of course, to fulfill these functions, the group needs to have a good dynamic. The ground for this dynamic is trust, honesty, and a little kindness. We are all honest with each other in our critiques, and we trust that all criticism is given to improve our work. We also try to be kind and supportive, about writing and about the inevitable difficulties of life.
We also understand that the writer who listens to many voices has the right to decide which critiques to accept and which she will reject. (Sometimes this is made easier by contradictory critiques—you can’t go both ways at once!) Insofar as possible, the writer being critiqued tries not to talk or respond until everyone else has spoken.
We are professional. We assume that we are all striving to help each other get published. We also do the work. And it is work. We take our job as critics as well as writers very seriously.
Our group may be unusual in that all of our participants have had previous careers that predated the writing we do for the group. Having had or having another identity besides writer may be one reason why we have been able to give and take criticism with seriousness but without hurt feelings or divisions. Or maybe our age and professional experience has nothing to do with it. Maybe we were just lucky.
The notion of the romantic artist, writing alone, in his garret, is actually quite recent. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, writing, and the performance of works-in-progress before one’s peers, was the way most publications were produced. It was a much more social activity, and one that discouraged “writer’s block.” For those who have never tried to be in a writer’s group, but need that extra push, outside critique and support, I highly recommend it. And if the first one doesn’t work, don’t give up. Keep looking and organizing. Someday you may say, “I love my writer’s group!”
