“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!”

Does one ever really say good-bye to a first novel? Perhaps like a first child, or a first car, or a first home, it will always embody the excitement of the new and the thrill of finally achieving something you have long worked for. So I was very happy to be able to give Cézanne’s Quarry a particularly grand send off, with elegance and art in Philadelphia last March.

I had read and talked about the themes of CQ to a number of Alliance Française chapters (in Seattle, Berkeley, Portland, and Sarasota). Every venue was different but always my hosts were gracious, the audiences interested, and the food delicious.  I had also had a phone interview with the reading group of the docents at the Portland Art Museum (I’d welcome more of these!). Then the Fates of Art and France merged.   Danielle Thomas-Easton asked me to give a talk sponsored by the Alliance Française of Philadephia at about the same time the docents of the Barnes Institute (which has the largest collection of Cézanne’s in the world) were reading my book and inviting me to visit. I made a date to go to Pennsylvania.

Let me tell you, Mme Thomas-Easton, Director of France-Philadelphie, knows how to put on an event! Held at the Ethical Culture Society in downtown Philadelphia, the audience included luminaries of French-American relations as well as several docents from the Barnes. There was food, photos and wine, while I was signing books, followed by a Provençal dinner. I was particularly pleased with the introduction by Fabienne Perpiglia, who owns Here and Abroad, an agency that rents homes in Provence. Born in Aix-en-Provence, she reported that while she was reading my book she felt so at home she could hear the fountains in her native city. This helped to erase in my mind a perplexing anonymous Amazon review criticizing my sense of place. Merci Fabienne—and Danielle!

Even more anticipated than the talk (I’ve heard myself before) was the visit, hosted by docent Bev Cutler, to the famous Barnes Foundation. Set in a great estate in the suburbs, this collection was built by Dr. Albert Barnes (1872-1951) who invented an antiseptic silver compound that made him a fortune. Always sympathetic to the poor and working classes, he hung art in his factories as well as in his foundation. At first the Philadelphia establishment scorned his collection as too avant-garde. It now includes 69 Cézannes, 181 Renoirs, 59 Matisses, 46 Picassos, and much more. Barnes arranged each wall according to his own theories of art, and, scorning in turn those who had rejected his ideas, he decided to keep his collection in place, in perpetuity, as an educational foundation. However, more than a half-century after his death, all this has changed. Having seen the light (and the art), the Establishment has worked hard to get his collection into the center of Philadelphia despite Dr. Barnes’ last wishes. The ground is broken: we saw the hole. The move is very controversial, but like most controversies there is a trade off: more access for more people versus fulfilling the original intentions of the collector and educator. A recent documentary The Art of the Steal shows and tells the story.

I feel so privileged that I got to see the collection in its original setting.  It was both awe-inspiring and meditative. I saw Cézannes I had never seen, a wonderful way to say good-bye for a while.

Saturday, July 10, was the big day: my first reading of The Blood of Lorraine, in Eugene, Oregon: aka, Track City; host of the Oregon Bach Festival; home of the University of Oregon’s Fighting Ducks; and, being the “last refuge of the terminally hip,” the site of the famous annual Country Fair. Just as when I first read from Cézanne’s Quarry, I chose a beautiful summer afternoon just as both the OBF and the Fair were winding down. I’m glad to say that I still drew a crowd and that it was less scary than the first time. Reading in front of an audience made up mostly of friends and acquaintances can be nerve-wracking. On the one hand, you expect them to be kind; on the other, they are the people you meet in every phase of you life, every day, and you don’t want to disappoint them. You can run out of any other town!
Once again, reading in Eugene was great. Laura White at the University of Oregon Bookstore is the master arranger of place, setting, posters, and books. All I had to do was order the food for the reception, get up there, and let the ham kick in. Thank you Laura!
Of course, one of the issues is what passages to read. By the time I had completed my readings for Cézanne’s Quarry, I felt I had picked out the perfect set. After a few readings I knew exactly when and where to stop to keep my audience hanging, just a little. But could I do that with Blood? I’m still working on it. I did love when I asked if I should read more and an unidentified listener shouted out, “Yes, but don’t give away the ending.” Never!
How, indeed, could I end when I feel very much in the middle? I will tell you about my last reading of CQ—and its particular delights—next time. So there is the part of me that is reluctantly giving up that phase of authorship, and then there is the part of me that is thinking about the next book very intensely. Blood is in the middle. It will be a trilogy, my friends, but I’m not going to give away the ending.