Today I will be a panelist on The Care & Feeding of Writing Groups at Village Books in Fairhaven. An honor to be asked. A surprise to be referred. A scattering of thoughts. I ponder my own history in writing groups and with writers.
I see Mom in a slice of sunshine on soft golden tiles staring out at the bay of Naples, writing in her journal.
I see Aldous Huxley peering though thick glasses at huge notes as he speaks at a college. When I talk to him, I must drop my head back.
I remember an award for writing. Today is an improv. A panel of people with a variety of experiences. I remember the Womyn’s Centre Writing Group where sessions could push on into darkness and five hour sessions. Intense wild groups with deep character analysis.
Today is another moment of memory making.