The writing group had a life-enforced hiatus then met again yesterday....all of us attending for the first time since November.
I am always stunned by how quickly the hours pass. We critique each other's work, argue politics, discuss deeply personal situations we discover ourselves in and pass along ridiculously funny conversations we've had. We share our lives with each other at all levels, with our writers' ears and eyes and hearts.
Their critique of my work is the treasure I carry home with me, inspiring me to think again, hear what I really wish to say, push the words around until the message is what I meant it to be. And they do so in such an amazing way. The only way I could ever thank them properly is to try to do the same when it's my turn to speak about their magical writing.
I've come to cherish our lunches, especially the stares -- and sometimes glares -- from folks at neighboring tables when we burst into laughter and start howling at one another, often not acting our age. I am often more comfortable in the midst of these folks than I am with any other family or friends, and I imagine the others feel the same, so we tend to let down our hair and anything goes. Others out for business lunches tend to cast us jealous looks occasionally. We don't bother to quiet down; we've paid our dues.
It's how we are. Happy to be writers who have found like souls to discuss our work with, to agonize over the snail-paced journey to publication, to rant and rave about where we fit in the world, to toss ideas about and catch the ones that explode. On Tuesdays with these writers who are more than friends and even more than family, I can be absolutely me and they love me all the same. As I do each of them.
And we'll meet again soon. I am a lucky lady.