They had rules.
Strict rules I had to agree to before Scribblers,
a Brussels-based English-language literary critique group, would even look
at my writing sample. Regular attendance, a page of my new writing brought
to the meeting each week, and I wasn't allowed to respond to any of the
critiques.
I didn't have a problem with the first rule, and
a page a week didn't phase me. I'm a writer. I write.
But the third rule made me mad.
"You mean I can't ask questions?"
"No. You can't respond. Whatsoever."
I understood their reasoning. Who wants to listen
to a 30-minute diatribe about why line two, paragraph 11 of chapter 47 really
does show all the motivation for your nun-heroine to become a serial killer,
and if you'll just listen for another 30 minutes, the author will explain
it to you again.
Their reasoning was clear, but the rigidity of
the wording bothered me. I saw prison bars.
"What if I want to talk?"
"You can't. It's not allowed."
I had no choice but to agree. I could either accept
their rules or not have a face-to-face critique group. And I did miss my
face-to-face WRW critique group.
My WRW critique group didn't always agree, nor
did we always get along, but we did support each other as writers, and that's
what I missed. When I was having a bad writing week, they understood what
that meant and how important it was. I missed the support I got from them,
as tangible as the back of my computer chair. I missed feeling like I be
longed.
So I agreed to all their rules.
I attended the group. Knees knocking, breathy-voiced
and more nervous than when I'd met my boss, the American Ambassador to Belgium,
I read my work first, just to get it over with.
I read the first three pages of my new category
romance, Raw Silk. When I finished, there was complete silence, then
someone murmured, "Oh, my."
It didn't bode well.
They didn't say much. They couldn't. None of them
had read a category romance, although two of the women did admit to enjoying
a Danielle Steele novel when they had the flu or were really, really tired.
And wasn't there all that talk about a romance novel about bridges?
A man in the group was impressed by the eroticism
of the piece. My hackles rose - this was about true love, not about sex
- until I realized he meant his emotions had been touched. And that was
what I had been aiming for.
They read next. The writing was fluid and visually
evocative, the pacing laboriously slow. I bit my lips to keep from asking,
"Is this scene crucial to the plot?", not really sure if literary
fiction had a plot.
The next week I brought the first three pages in
my heroine Cassie's point of view. Unlike the hero, Victor, I didn't have
a handle on Cassie yet. I'd used this scene as a tool to meet my heroine.
The pacing was non-existent but I knew I'd cut most of the scene when I
edited.
The group loved it. They found the rambling passages
enlightening and preferred Cassie's mental meandering to Victor's blunt-edged
eroticism.
Their comments didn't help. The parts they liked,
I knew I'd cut. The parts they didn't like, I intended to keep.
The next week, I was in a slump. My characters
felt as insubstantial as paper dolls. My brief career as a writer was over.
Discouraged, I brought three more pages but said
I'd rather talk about my writing process.
"We don't do that," they said.
"Excuse me?"
"This is a serious, working critique group,"
one of the members explained. "We only deal with the work."
Well, I was in a slump, and until I got out of
it, I wasn't doing my work.
After the meeting I called Laurin Wittig, my friend
and WRW critique partner. "They only care about the words," I
said. "What about the emotional support? The talking? The commiseration?
What happened to the emotion?"
Laurin waited until I finished my tirade. "That's
the difference between romance writing and literary writing. Romance is
about emotion."
She was right. Some literary fiction I've read
had phrases so soulful they melted in my mouth like chocolate. But my heart
remained untouched and I put the book down.
I read to feel - to dream - to heal.
I write for the same reasons.
I left the group. Good writing is good writing,
but writing is also about emotion.
I'm thinking of starting my own group. No rules,
no mandatory page counts, just good emotions and good friends. If you're
interested, you provide the airfare, and I'll provide the Belgian chocolate. | 
