I belong to a few writing groups, and we enjoy varying degrees of success. The group in which I pay dues has a ton of success stories, meaning that some of the group members have been published by actual agencies or self-published. In my other groups we talk about getting published, but that’s considered a hurdle to conquer.
Maybe it’s better to call a group of actual published writing people a bloc rather than a group. A bloc is defined as persons sharing a common purpose, and that is definitely the people with whom I associate the most. Over the past three years we have managed to keep in touch on social media and video, which has helped us to keep our writing dreams from dissolving under the oppression.
My dues-paying group has been meeting virtually every month, and recently we began doing write-ins virtually once a week, so I now see the same people half a dozen times a month. Sometimes we go to the local coffee shop and bring our laptops to type and sip. We also, finally, returned to our regular meeting place, where we try to combine virtual meetings with a live event. We’ve hired a young college tech guru to help us set up the video equipment and overcome our fear of gizmos (such as remote mics and universal remotes), and we’re happy to be together physically again.
We are united in the frustrations of being a writer, especially when regular employment actually pays the bills and daily life such as spouse and kids demands our attention.
Lately, my writing itself has been demanding my attention at three in the morning. That’s when my brain decides to put forth an entire chapter of wonderful ideations, bring marvelous prose to the mouths of my main characters, and resolve all the finer plot holes which I was forced to leave festering in my subconscious in favor of my overall health via some well-earned sleep.
For writers like us, the best place to jot down notes is the bathroom, the best time to try and remember that solution to the antagonist’s most profound moment is while the soup is boiling over, and an ideal setting for keying a few hundred pages is the plastic chair on the back porch, balancing the laptop on the place it is apparently supposed to go; your lap. Just don’t spill the beverage.
We admire our heroes such as Stephen King, who sits down to write in an actual office, has time to do it, and knows what the antagonist is up to. Of course, Uncle Stevie (we say affectionately) is a top-tier best-selling, guaranteed revenue type of author. Those of us in writing blocs are scrambling for whatever recognition may come our way.
We discuss successes and failures with equal enthusiasm. My article was picked up by a magazine. Bravo! I got my 30th rejection from a publisher today. All right, then! I didn’t manage to write a thing. You’ll get it all written down soon. It’s a wonderful band of like-minded people I associate with. Our purpose is strong, our convictions stable.
One is said to have writer’s block when we can’t write, but usually for us it’s simply a matter of getting five minutes to sit in that chair on the back porch. We overcome our obstacles one at a time and meet to talk about them regularly.
It feels good to know somebody is watching and is ready to celebrate our victories. It’s a sort of bloc party.
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