Yesterday, I was in charge of the writers meeting in a side room of the Mt. Pleasant Public Library. I was in a hurry and ran off tips for better writing to share with the fellow writers. I snatched them off the printer and left the house. I needed to pick up my Granddaughter Hannah after school and watch her until her mom got off work. As I’m sitting, waiting out a rain storm, I begin to read the print out. Oh, no. It was something I’d read or had shared with me before. I thought it might have been for our group. There was no time to go back, search the internet for another topic.
It stopped storming and I was able to take Hannah home without drowning. Hannah was talking about the storm. One of her classmates tried to explain the thunder as “someone bowling in heaven.” First she asked, what is bowling, then she asked if her grandmother Cindy was bowling in heaven. I had to explain that God made the thunder and that there were no bowling lanes in heaven.
I was fortunate that none of the fellow writers had heard the tips and that was a pleasant surprise. Several of our writers shared their creations. As I read mine, I noticed it needed much more work, too much repetition, my biggest fault.
We were all impressed when a young woman who occasionally attended the meetings shared several very emotional pieces of prose. With deep felt sentiment, she described the trials that she has been having. The entire reading was intense and to a person, the other writers told her the trials had made her a much better writer. The hardship endured had poured through into her writing. I was glad that her writing was so much improved, yet my heart went out to her for her problems. Sometimes an artist doesn’t have to be like Van Gogh and cut off an ear to suffer for art.