I had not heard of the Ramsey Writing Group until I received an invitation to join. The collective only allows for eight members at a time. When one member leaves, the vacancy can only be filled by invitation. It was the invitation that prompted me to go. I was seduced by the exclusivity factor. Were it not for this moment of weakness, I would not have agreed to go to that first meeting. I have only known one writing group in the Twin Cities of any merit and that was the Uptown Poetry Group which had the distinct honor of being the longest (continuous) running Twin Cities poetry group until its founder, poet Dan Schneider, moved away.
When I sat at the long, white, plastic table in the non-descript meeting room, I learned that I had the opportunity to take the place of Sherry, the eighty-seven year old former member who had died the week before. The oldest member was now being replaced by the youngest prospective member. The other members were in their late fifties and sixties save one who was mid-forties and, other than myself, the only male of the group. He taught mathematics and his poetry dealt with numbers. He was interested in railroads but didn't know how to go about writing a railroad poem.
This Monday agenda was as such:
1. Welcome Dylan
2. Discussion: How can an unknown writer become accepted by literary magazines without having to submit material? Half an hour of thought led to nothing-I remained silent. The faces were a little too distorted for Fellini. The banter was a bit too odd for the Coen brothers.
3. The reading of new works.
Don's poem was nothing more than algebraic formula set in peculiarly rhymed couplets. The ladies read their poems consisting of everything from a list of what was found in a cluttered closet to odes to the aches and pains that come with old age-
My shoulder hurts
My back does too
If my knees start to go
Whatever shall I do?
The time reserved for critique following each poem read consisted solely of back patting as it is believed in the group that if you can write something for each meeting, every other Monday, that dedication makes that poem above reproach.
I remained silent but if one were to have looked at the arms of my chair, they would have discovered the highway of grooves my fingernails had carved.
The final reader introduced her piece with the story of her baby that had died 3 ½ minutes after it was born thirty seven years ago. There was ten seconds of story. She took 25 minutes to tell it. She then read a two page excerpt from the book she had nearly completed entitled (aptly): "3 ½ minutes". The book tells the story of those 3 ½ minutes. She says the book is 370+ pages long. It didn't take Don's help for me to figure out that each page tells 1.76 seconds of the story. I can only assume that every 10-15 seconds equals a chapter.
Don't make me out to be the bad guy; I do feel sorry for her loss and what she had to go through but, come on, after a third of a century it is time to stop milking the personal tragedy cow. And don't feel sorry for her. She actually has a publisher interested in the book.
I remained silent as I was busy fantasizing about suicide. The pros column was rapidly filling up.
With that the meeting ended. Chairs were put up against one wall and the long, plastic table was folded and put against the other. I went home and poured one hell of a strong drink.
Despite the three grueling hours spent at that first meeting, I returned two more times to the Ramsey Writing Group. Nothing changed apart from the subsequent meetings being longer. The author of "3 ½" even was kind enough to give the same 25 minute introduction to the few pages she had decided to read from the book. Yes, I asked-she gives the same long introduction each meeting despite the members being the same.
More bad poems about aging. More pointless discussions. The worst part of it all is that none of it actually leads anywhere. I would assume that the purpose of a writing group is to help the members improve their writing and give ideas on where to take that writing once it is perfected. Were the members of this group an Alcoholics Anonymous chapter instead of a writing group they would sit around and tell each other it's alright to drink as long as you bring booze to the next meeting. The Ramsey Writing Group has no purpose beyond aging to the next Monday meeting. That is the failure of any writing group. Even the Uptown Poetry Group that focused on improving works brought in failed in the sense that most people who were told that their work needed improving (even in the slightest sense) would simply stop coming out of a false sense of disrespect. The ego would provide a foolish anger.
I have not been to a fourth meeting of the Ramsey group. I couldn't now anyway. After I stopped attending without excused absence, I was sent a letter that revoked my invitation to be a member. Apparently I did not have what it takes to sit at that illustrious plastic table and my long face, rolling eyes, and caustic silence did not meet with much appreciation. But I have opened the door to one lucky person out there. Because of me, a new invitation has been sent out. Some blessed writer will have the opportunity to sit in the chair I blasphemed with my ass. Oh, the same old stories I'll miss. Oh, the doggerel I'll never have the fortune to taste.
And to whom should accept that invitation, the first round of therapy is on me.
© 2005 by D. Garcia Wahl.