Are You an Author or a Writer?

When I’m looking for something new to read I’ll often peruse samples of self-published books on Amazon.com.  It’s a treasure trove of brilliant stories and superb writing.  Sadly, it’s also a quagmire and finding the gems among the mud can be a hassle.

Last year I came across a book, the details of which I will refrain from giving.  I only read the first few sample pages and promptly put it down.  It was nothing but passive voice, info dumping, endless adverbs and paragraphs with the same word used half a dozen times.  It read worse than most nanowrimo drafts I’ve seen.

I put the book out of mind until I happened upon its sequel the other day.  Curious, I read the sample pages to see what improvements the author had made in his writing.  None.  He still had all of the novice mistakes and sloppy editing that’d plagued the first book.  He clearly didn’t care about improving his craft, he just wanted to get his book out there.

In one of my writing groups we have people wander in with their shiny new manuscript, ready for us to be awed.  These new people have either visited other groups where they received a pat on the head, or they’ve never been to a writers group before.

My group is arguably one of the more brutally honest.

When these new people receive their critiques, there are three common results.

1. They never come back – Hurt that we didn’t love their piece, we never see them again. I feel sorry for these people, because they can develop into exquisite writers if only if they could handle the constructive criticism.

2. They get defensive – These people are fun to watch. They aggressively try to defend their writing, and how they’re right and everyone else is either wrong and/or stupid. They subsequently also never come back, but I have no sympathy for this group and say good riddance.

One girl received a particularly harsh criticism.  Her character was a 25-year-old beauty queen, philanthropist, helicopter pilot, brain surgeon billionaire (I’m not exaggerating).  The character was also a complete jerk, yet somehow everyone in the book fell in love with her.

In previous critique sessions, the author had been told that this won’t work, but she ignored all advice.  Finally, fed-up with the same character appearing again and again, one of the people who’d critiqued her simply said that he wished this character would just die in her Olympic-sized swimming pool.

A short while later this girl returned with a new piece.  This time her character brutally murdered someone with the critiquer’s name…in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

After that we never saw her again.

3. They accept the criticism and try to improve, carefully looking over the comments and taking to heart the points that would best help them. Sometimes critiques are hard, but they return slightly better than before and ready to learn.

I have seen incredible talent blossom from those who are willing.

To be an author is easy; you just have to put words on paper and get it out there for the world to see.

To be a writer takes effort.  Writing, Revision, Critique.  You bleed red ink and still come back for more.  You are never at the pinnacle of your talent.  Always strive to build upon your craft and become something greater.

Don’t just be an author.  Become a writer.

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Kami no Itte

The game of Go, the game of the divine, my game. Before me an empty space of infinite possibility. I click my stone to the grid like a black star winking into existence, the first of my creations. My universe. A lonely speck, but soon others will join it.

Click! A white star appears, disturbing my aesthetic. Unacceptable. I place another black, expanding my cosmos, and then I lean back, smiling. This is my space; I will not suffer intrusion.

Click! Now there are two white stars in my universe! I place another black stone. I will be the largest, uncontested and unassailable. Another white paints the grid. I build my network of black, claiming my territory even as White claims his. I ponder my opponent’s boldness; we are destined to clash. There can only be one.

***

It was a lazy Friday afternoon. Most of the students at Nakacho Elementary had already left for home, and I sat in the teacher’s office listening to the clock quietly tick away. The sun beamed through large windows, and the spring sky was so clear I could see Mt. Fuji rising in the distance. The weekend beckoned.

It began with a strange, low groan, like the bowels of a wooden ship on choppy waters. Tables rattled. My desk vibrated. Pictures fell and trees swayed.

***

My black stars pulse to life in the field of white as I test my opponent, gauging his strength, and how he’ll react when I invade. I click my stone, and my opponent draws back, raising a hand to his mouth.

What now?

This conflict between black and white has repeated itself over four thousand years. The ancient game of Go. Eloquent in simplicity. Mesmerizing in complexity. To which there are more possible outcomes than atoms in the universe.

To be of the gentry in dynastic China one must learn its moves. In Japan, even the samurai bowed to a master of the art.

Two opponents sit across from one another and exchange a traditional Japanese greeting with a slight bow. “Onegaishimasu.” They take turns laying black and white stones that click when placed on the board. Whoever controls the most territory emerges victorious.

Click!

A white star flashes near my lonely black; a solid if not conservative response. But I do not play conservative.

The board, a simple 19×19 grid, hides the enormous depth of the game under a façade of ink. The wood is Kaya, Japanese nutmeg, prized for its pleasant sound, strong yet subtle grain, and delicate cinnamon aroma.

The scent tingles my nose as I lift another black stone from my bowl. I smile. Well done, white, but you cannot stop me now. Instead of retreating to the center, I dive into white’s strength. He struggles as my cluster grows, slicing like a knife through his feebly constructed barriers. My dominance is assured.

***

After almost three years in Japan I’d come to accept the occasional tremor as ordinary, and the thirty-second rumbles didn’t faze me anymore. But this was something different, like facing a rabid dog after knowing only puppies.

In six long minutes the entire island chain of Japan shifted eight feet and the earth’s axis tilted four inches.

The rocking continued beyond the main jolt. For hours the ground hummed, swaying the dead oaks outside the office windows. Saitama Prefecture escaped the worst of the shock, but we knew something terrible had happened.

My colleagues tuned into NHK’s disaster report. 9.0. We’d experience one of the largest quakes in recorded history with the epicenter several hundred miles off the northern Tohoku coast.

We listened in stunned silence as the newscaster announced…

Tsunami.

***

Go is played on a razor’s edge, and the smallest move can have the most profound impact. Frustration is your greatest enemy. It leads to desperate, ill-planned plays and ultimate failure. Understand that a loss may only be the avenue to greater victory.

Our conflict rages across the grid as stars flare to life, spinning an intricate web of black and white.

However, White has erred, and the advantage is mine. I will crush this upstart and claim my victory. Everywhere white stars fade from the board.

***

Racing across the Pacific at five-hundred miles per hour, the waves slowed as they reached the shore, growing in places as high as one hundred and thirty-feet. They smashed into the northeastern Tohoku coastline in one relentless wall after another.

We watched on live television as cars floated through the streets like specks in a river, and people ran from the deluge only to be consumed by the flood.

My anger boiled at the newscasters, safe in their helicopters. Each of them could have potentially saved a life: a mother clinging to her baby, a man desperately racing for high ground, people huddled on rooftops; the deluge claimed them while newscasters hovered, filming homes crack from their foundations like sandcastles in the surf.

We stared in disbelief, later learning that fifteen thousand people had lost their lives. Fifteen thousand! Could I even comprehend that? Though it happened so close, the distance reflected in the screen made it unbelievable.

***

In Go it is polite to resign when you can’t win, and the height of rudeness is to continue a lost game.

Click! White plays again, this time challenging my cluster near the center. We spiral around one another. I smile and drive white’s failed assault right into my waiting wall of black. My opponent shakes his head, and I smile in anticipation as I lean back, waiting to hear the word of defeat: “Makemashita. I resign.”

White breaths a heavy sigh, but it’s not a sigh of resignation.

***

The ocean twisted in chaos when the waters receded. At the town of Oarai a whirlpool spun a hundred times larger than the funnels of the Naruto Maelstrom between Awaji and Shikoku.

The supermarkets were barren. Following the advice of my religious leaders, I had kept twenty kilograms of rice aside as emergency food storage. This helped not only myself, but also others in my apartment complex while stores struggled to replenish their stock.

Miraculous stories of survival emerged in the days that followed. Susumu Sagawara took his boat and charged directly into the oncoming waves. He and his boat survived and both provided invaluable service in the rescue efforts during those crucial days that followed.

Hiromitsu Shinkawa clung to the roof of his house as the currents carried him ever further from land. His wife had disappeared under the waves. He survived alone for two days in the glare of the Pacific sun. Rescuers discovered him ten miles off the coast; one of them handed him a bottle of water. He swallowed then burst into tears.

The call for volunteers came months later, and I went to assist in the cleanup. As I walked through Otsuchi, one of the worst hit towns, much of the rubble was gone and the floated cars now sat piled atop one another. On the other side of town, a tourist boat stood in testament of the tsunami’s height.

It rested atop a two-story guesthouse.

Though half-inundated the city hall still stood, one of the few buildings that did. The clock over the entryway ticked no more, its hands forever frozen at 2:49, the time the first wave hit.

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***

Click!

I tilt my head at the new white stone, now glistening in my sea of black. I lean forward and examine the move. Inconsequential. My eyes widen as I draw back and scan the entire board.

No!

Sweat beads my forehead. I retaliate. White responds. Our battle continues as my victory, once so secure, fades like wisps of steam on a summer’s day. My strategy fails, and across the grid my black stars wink from existence.

How could my opponent have seen such a move? White’s play, stimulating and beautiful, precise and exacting. It was a Kami no Itte, a divine move, something to which lowly mortals aspire and in deep contemplation only true gods can inspire.

***

The destructive power wrought by nature awed me, but even as I stood amidst the foundations of buildings swept aside, I struggled to understand the true magnitude of this disaster. At the base of a hill, I walked past the overturned tombstones of the city cemetery, gazing at the devastation. In the debris was a small stone. I bent over and picked it up.

It was a Go stone.

All of the weight of lives lost and communities destroyed fell on me as I rolled the tiny, black piece around my fingers. Here in my hand was a universe, someone’s universe. Every skeletal foundation represented the life of someone who’d lost the chance to play. Tears filled my eyes.

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***

I stare at my opponent, his face still in deep contemplation, showing none of the overconfidence and condescension that was my downfall. I hesitate, squeezing the black stone in between my trembling fingers. I sigh and slowly drop it back in the bowl and hang my head.

Makemashita,” I say.

My opponent bows as I surrender my universe. “Arigatou gozaimashita.”

***

I sat in the graveyard and stared at the tiny stone resting in my palm. Did the owner of this piece play a divine move and survive the flood against hopeless odds? Or did he bow his head in silent resignation as the swirling morass overtook him?

I kept that stone as a reminder of the lives lost and games never played. Someday, once the scars have healed and the town rebuilt, I’d like to travel back to Otsuchi and present the city with this small, but personally significant gift; the discovery in a ruined landscape that painted a human face on a faceless disaster. The last Kami no Itte of a simple black stone.

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Five Minutes

The League of Utah Writers held its annual conference this year in Logan, Utah on August 28th and 29th.  From what I hear it was the most successful conference the league has ever presented.

I taught a class on foreign/artificial language in writing and learned from other presenters on their own topics of expertise.  Prior to the conference I’d submitted a number of pieces for their writing contest and won first place for my creative nonfiction piece “Five Minutes.”

I thought I’d share it with you.  🙂

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A big thank you to the Cache Valley Branch of the league for the honest and helpful critiques over the years.  You’ve helped me learn (and continue to learn) how to write.

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Five Minutes

With the glimpse of flowering blossoms rustling in an April breeze or the orange beams of a sunset on wispy clouds, there are times when I catch a glimmer of beauty that stays with me forever.  This is why I climb mountains.  Only where earth meets sky, can I truly feel free, if for only five minutes.

In the summer of 2008, I arrived in Japan fresh out of college and ready to show the world what I could do.  I planned to climb Mt. Fuji as a grand welcoming to the land of the rising sun.  Conquering Fuji-san was like conquering myself, proof that I could endure my years away from home.

Unlike the other mountains I’ve climbed, Mt. Fuji rises so prominently over packed cities and mountainous landscape that it dominates the skyline for more than a hundred miles.  It is the subject of countless poems, photographs and artwork, and it is the single most recognizable symbol of Japan.

The best peaks offer more than just a good view; they offer an array of life, nature, and landscape.  The trail up Mt. Naomi in Northern Utah passes through meadows thick with wildflowers that slope into an alpine wilderness.  Teewinot in the Wyoming Tetons is not for the faint of heart, with its steep trails and dangerous cliffs, rising to a pinnacle that drops a sheer three thousand feet into Cascade Canyon.

Mt. Fuji, an active volcano, offers rocks.  Big rocks, small rocks, round rocks, sharp rocks, lots and lots of boring, brown rocks.

To be fair, I only climbed the upper part of Fuji-san.  A lush landscape surrounds the lower half, but that isn’t where people usually start, and like most people, I began my ascent just below tree line at the Subaru Fifth Station on the Yoshida trail, Yoshida Subaru Gogome.

The fifth station is a tourist trap, and with the exception of a small Shinto shrine, the hotels and shops looked like a tacky alpine village.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn I was in a ski resort.

Mt. Fuji itself looms over the hotels and souvenir shops, or so I imagined, were it not for the clouds blocking the view.  Fuji-san is an extraordinarily shy mountain.  She’s so large she has her own weather patterns and gladly snatches nearby clouds to wrap around herself like a fluffy blanket.

Every good hike needs a walking stick, and with my favorites still back in the U.S., I perused the shops whose selections included a variety of staffs, each with intricately carved mountain gods or local animals.  I opted for a plain, four-foot wooden pole.  This has since become one of my best hiking sticks.

Two Japanese signs marked the trailhead on the far side of the fifth station, and a line of haggard returning hikers ambled past as I took my first steps onto the trail.  They leaned on their own walking sticks, cringing with each step.  I gulped and sped on, the path couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

Lush trees and pink flowers lined the way, and the hum of cicada song punctuated the ambience.  Miniature shrines dedicated to the mountain gods dotted the path, and one such statue stood winking at passersby with a small pile of coins at its base.  I couldn’t decide whether his expression wished good luck or was meant to encourage donation.  I still had a few pennies in my wallet, so I left them for him, hoping that American currency would bring as much luck as Japanese.

It didn’t.

The trees soon parted at the sixth station, rokugome.  From here, the land below stretched into the horizon, growing from a canopy of green.  Sadly all I saw was gray fog.  The trail widened, zigzagging into the mists as the ascent began in earnest.  Most people turned back here, satisfied with the forty-minute nature trail.

I climbed into the drifting haze above, and it dampened the sound of other hikers, leaving me isolated with my thoughts.  For the first time, I contemplated what I was doing.  Here I was, on the other side of the world, and climbing a mountain I’d only seen in pictures or film.  The thought invigorated my muscles and drove me on.  I’d worked for years to finish my degrees and move out into the world, and now I at last I was here.

There’s a saying in China, “He who does not reach the Great Wall is not a true man.”  The Japanese have a similar phrase, “Fuji-san, ichido mo noboranu baka, nido noboru baka.”  This roughly translated as, “He who has never climbed Mt. Fuji is a fool, and he who climbs it twice is a greater fool.”  In China, I passed my test into manhood, and now I would prove I was no fool.

Still, what about climbing Mt. Fuji twice made you a greater fool?

The path gradually narrowed until the switchbacks stopped at the seventh station, nanagome, a collection of mountain huts offering lodging, overpriced food, and outrageously expensive water.  Each hut also offered a special hot iron stamp for your walking stick as proof you’d made it this far.  For a price, of course.  I leaned on my pole and sighed as the man pressed an iron to my stick.

I felt like such a tourist.

Nanagome, the seventh station.  The word “nana” in Japanese means “seven,” but there’s also another word for it, shichi.  “Shi” has connotations with death, so while Shichigome means “the seventh station,” in liberal interpretation, it could also mean “the death station.”  Not a particularly pleasant thought and I wondered why my mind focused on that obscure aspect of the Japanese vernacular.

I’d passed hundreds of people on the trail, but it was those in their sixties, seventies, and dare I say eighties that impressed me the most.  They huffed, moved slowly, but kept going.  Their determination reminded me of Ulrich Inderbinen, a mountain guide who scaled the Matterhorn in the Swiss Alps three-hundred and seventy times, with his last ascent being at the age of ninety.  He’d continued to climb other alpine peaks until retiring at ninety-five.

The sky cleared.  At last, I could see the top, closer than I’d anticipated.  Both my legs and feet rejoiced.  I already felt bruises on the bottom of my feet, and a blister growing under my little toe didn’t help.  I sat on one of the benches at nanagome and eased my shoes off, spilling out the tiny stones that’d fallen in.  My soles were red.  It’s amazing how much lava rock hurts, even through thick shoes.

Here and there patches of green dotted the brownish slope, and an occasional bird darted about, snatching insects.  A small cliff of rock jutted from the top and was the only feature of note.  When compared to the Idol and Worshiper on Mt. Teewinot, it wasn’t much to look at.  Still, that was my goal, and I would meet it before sundown.

The clouds reached and pulled back like wispy fingers reaching for an endless sky.  One in particular rose like a menacing shadow over the others, and for the first time, I began to question the wisdom of climbing the tallest mountain in Japan while a tropical storm hovered off the Honshu coast.

Fuji-san’s shadow reached over the clouds in a perfect cone.  It grew, moving like a stalker through the mists as the hours waned.

The higher I climbed, the more difficult it became to breathe, with each inhale harder than the last.  My muscles tingled and my head spun with the beginnings of altitude sickness.  Although sleeping in the huts at the top would help me acclimatize, this was going to be a long, headache filled night.

A sinking pit welled in my stomach as I neared the rocky outcropping.  There were ten stations, and if I was near the top, why hadn’t I come across the eighth yet?

I sighed.  Yes, this “top” was the eighth station, hachigome.  I looked back at the rocky outcropping I wrongly thought my goal.  It now sat at least two or three hundred feet below.

The sky brightened with the last shades of twilight and when the slivers of pinkish sunlight faded, the moon rose like a pale lantern, illuminating distant clouds.

I looked for the altitude marker and my heart sank.  I still had more than four hundred and thirty-six meters to go!  Fourteen hundred feet!  It was like climbing every step in the Empire State Building with another four hundred left to spare.

The man in the last hut looked with trepidation at the path ahead, and advised me to stay there for the night since I hadn’t brought a flashlight.  I looked up, this time not at a false top, but the real goal.  I shook my head.  No.  I set out to climb this mountain today, and I was going to do it.  I came to Japan for the experience, and if I stopped now I might as well turn around and go home.  I needed to prove I could do it.  If I succeeded, then perhaps I could find a place in the land of the rising sun.  I held out my staff and paid the man to stamp it, proof that I’d at least made it this far.  He sighed and gave me a knowing look, as if I’d not been the first to ignore his sound advice.

I trudged on, stubborn determination carrying my steps far above Hachigome.  I looked back at the line of headlamps and flashlights dotting the trail between the seventh and eighth stations.  None followed past that point.

I was alone on the mountain, just like I was alone in Japan.

The clouds crept back so slowly that I didn’t notice until they’d completely obscured the moon, leaving me in darkness.  The rising winds chilled my skin and the last leg of the journey sapped my stamina.  At this height, the lack of oxygen makes each step an expression of sheer will.  Altitude sickness is a little like having the flu; your skin tingles and all of your muscles lose their strength.

To keep myself going, I counted my steps.  One.  Two.  Three.  Every time I reached fifty, I’d stop to catch my breath.  Again.  One.  Two.  Three.  Ten.  Twenty.  Or was that Twenty-one?  My oxygen-deprived mind lost itself in the simplicities of basic math.

The ninth station, Kyugome, was little more than a trail marker.  No hot food, no warming huts, and no one to stamp my stick.  More rocks had collected inside of my shoes and the blister on my toe was now the throbbing size of my thumbnail.  My will to go on faded and I looked back at the “death station” far below and struggled to banish unpleasant thoughts of my own demise.

Then the rain started.

Water pelted my face in gusts that blew me about while I felt my way up the trail with my walking stick.  The mountain winds howled, and shivering, I drew my jacket around my neck.

What was I doing?  Why was I here?  Not just on Mt. Fuji, but in Japan?  I stood on the opposite side of the world, with an ocean between me and my home.  I wanted independence, freedom, but I was fresh out of college.  It was like I’d jumped into the deep end of the pool without checking whether I could swim.

One.  Two.  Three.  The winds whisked my words away.  Aching, soaked and chilled I rounded a bend and squinted to see a torii gate.  Jugome.  The last station!  Only two more switchbacks stood between me and a warm blanket.  My knees buckled under the pressure, but gasping for breath, I carried myself up and passed through the threshold.

I looked about.  Why was it dark?

I walked past the mountain shacks in confused bewilderment.  I’d taken too long to get here and they’d closed for the night.

Years ago, during a particularly cold day in Switzerland I got caught in die Bieza, a bone-chilling winter wind common in the alpine valleys.  I experienced a case of mild hypothermia where my core body temperature dropped several degrees.  I spend an hour in a warm bath, but it wasn’t until about a week later when my body completely recovered.

My frantic knocks on the doors went unheeded, and I brought my knees to my chest as I shivered and slumped against one of the buildings to huddle out of the storm.  The air prickled my skin and blew almost as cold as it had in Switzerland, only this time with a chill rain.  I’d conquered the summit of Mt. Fuji, but she wouldn’t yield a victory so easily.  Was this what it was like actually living out in the world, away from a sheltered college life?  I was woefully unprepared for this mountain, so was I likewise unprepared to live away from home?

A group of people from India who’d also braved the hike arrived thirty minutes later, and we kept each other company until someone noticed us and opened the door.

The warm perfume of kerosene rushed into my face as I stepped into the hut.  My wet clothes clung to my skin, and after paying the mandatory fee, I took my bed, bunked among dozens of others.  The heavy blankets soothed my muscles and I drifted into restless sleep.

I woke to the commotion of hundreds of people.  Stumbling from my bunk, tired and stiff, my clothes still wet, I glanced through the crowd.  Many had spent the night, but many more had climbed after the rains had died down earlier that morning.  Everywhere people slurped small bowls of soba noodles and drank green tea.

I stepped outside and scowled.  Clouds had covered the mountain again, obscuring any view of the legendary Fuji sunrise.

I walked the caldera, up above the Jugome and away from the crowds.  I wanted to be alone when the sun rose, even if I couldn’t see it.  I stared at the reddening glow, disappointed.  All of that effort and no sunrise.  Worse yet, the hike back down would probably be nothing but a dull, gray fog.

As if in answer to my disheartened inner voice, or in reward for coming this far, Fuji-san showed compassion, and she parted the vapor.

Below, the clouds rolled in a sea of violet, and above, they coalesced into a ceiling of wavy red.  The sky between opened into a narrow corridor that stretched into a horizon of shimmering gold.

Rising like a red orb, the sun peeked over the blanket like a shy child gauging an audience.  From the station below, people called to it, raising their hands three times and cheering in unison.  “Banzai!  Banzai!  Banzai!

For five minutes I stared awestruck at the halo of color.  For five minutes I was free.  Free of care, worry, or pain.  My cramped legs became a distant moan, and my headache faded into the first light of the rising sun.

Fuji-san gave me a moment of paradise that I’ll ever thank her for.  The fog soon rushed across the caldera, again obscuring the horizon and leaving me with a bright, gray haze.

It was enough.

One of the men at the tenth station, jugome, stamped my stick with bright red kanji, Japanese characters proving that I’d made it.  That stick sits in the corner of my room, and every time I look at it, that red mark serves as a reminder of Fuji-san, and the lessons she taught.

I climb mountains for those rare moments when, in the freedom offered by the high places of the world, I catch a glimpse of beauty and understand what it means to live.  Though an ocean stood between me and my home, I now knew I could face what Japan offered.  As long as she, from time to time, gave me five minutes.

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The Writers Group

I’ve worked hard to improve my writing, and one of my greatest tools to that end has been the writing group.

Just for fun, I went back and re-read the first chapter I brought into a critique group two years ago.  Ouch!  The overuse of adverbs and terrible, clichéd writing was like someone scratching fingernails over a chalkboard.  I’ll never understand what possessed me to write a page and a half about hummingbirds in the first chapter of a fantasy story that had nothing to do with them.

A critique group can help both veterans and novices alike.  I recommend joining one that meets regularly (at least twice a month) and has members who write in a variety of genres and styles.

I’ve observed three kinds of groups in my writing career.

The casual meeting

Butterflies, ponies and fluffy bunnies.  The casual meeting is punctuated by food, games and perhaps a discussion on writing (if you’re lucky).  There’s very little in the way of critique, and the purpose of the group is to help a writer feel good about themselves.

The casual group is best for writers who aren’t looking for critique, but rather the companionship of like-minded people who want to have fun.

Possible critique: I like your book.  It’s a good book.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here

The crucible.  The sinking stairway into the abyss of despair.  Pain incarnate.  There’s no road to hell, because you’ve already reached your destination.  If sulfurous fumes and acid laced pitchforks don’t scare you, then this is the writers group for you.

This group is honest.  Brutally so.  The focus is solely on critiquing, leaving no room for fun and games.  You’ll enter this group with a piece and have it returned to you bleeding red ink.  This is the first group I joined.  We tend to have a new member attrition rate of about 70 – 90%.

Don’t come for praise.  You will get it from time to time, but expect to be torn apart.  No one but you can put the pieces back together again and when you do, you’ll be stronger and more confident than before.  Once you’ve survived your first few critique sessions, you’ll have the hardened skin needed to face critics and detractors head on.

This group is best for someone who wants to improve their ability.  There’s no flashy gimmicks, no playing around.  There’s only the writing.

I should mention, however,  that we meet at a restaurant afterward to unwind 🙂

Possible Critique:  You’re using way to many adverbs.  This piece is garbage and here’s why.  The protagonist is so annoying I hope she dies.

The hybrid

At last we have the hybrid.  A good mix of the previous two.  Hybrid groups meet and critique, but do so over a table of food…you know, the healthy kind.  Doritos, cake, salsa.

We focus on our storytelling as much as we do on our writing.

My group is small with four members.  This is both an advantage and a disadvantage.  We’re familiar with each other’s styles, but because we’re familiar, we’ll occasionally overlook mistakes we otherwise wouldn’t.

The hybrid group is best for those who like informal, small meetings with critique, story feedback, and fun.

Possible critique:  This part of your story works well, but your protagonists actions don’t fit their character.  Try this instead, it feels more natural.

Final Thoughts

Find what works for you.  I don’t particularly like the easy, casual group, but if that’s what motivates you to write, then go for it.  If a writers group doesn’t encourage you to improve, move on.

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So, I’ve talked about the three group styles of I’m acquainted with.  How about you?  Are you in a writing group?  Is it like one of groups listed above or is it different.  I’d like to hear your thoughts and/or experiences.