i spent the morning at the first meeting of the fledgling Farmington Writers' Circle. in the ironic way of it, no one to whom i initially sent a notice to showed up. but the people who did show up - one nice man and two nice women - were all interesting people with stories to tell, all passionate about things like words and stories and people.
a gathering of writers can be either an intense pain, or a real pleasure, and i have to say this morning, i was pleasantly surprised at how well the four of us meshed. as people of a certain age, we all had stories to share, experiences to relate, questions to ask. we were witty and clever and generous in allowing each other to share and to shine.
are we different, asked my friend susan, she of the thousand-and-one questions and millions of stories to tell. and the answer, if not apparent then, is an unequivocal yes, susan, we are. we ARE different, those of us who choose to spend time watching, listening and wrestling with the voices in our head and in our world; we who carve up our lives and those of everyone we meet into words. we ARE, and it is comforting to know that we are not alone.
it's been a while since i have actively sought out the company of kindred spirits. too many times and too many places i've been burned by people who seemed to expect something from me i had no idea how to give. but there was a time when all my friends were writers.
we made another two meeting dates, set up a schedule, and gave ourselves a writing exercise to share with the group in january.
then we all had coffee afterwards. from somewhere deep inside my soul, i feel the whispers start to stir.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.