I expect every writers group has their own shorthand–a vocabulary able to sum up mountains of meaning in molehills of words. In my writers group, there are some very efficient phrases like 1) “good point,” 2) “I see” 3) “okay, I’ll get right on that,” and 4) “thanks,” which mean, respectively 1) “lousy point,” 2) “you totally missed what I was trying to accomplish with this clever twist on convention and yet, based on how monumental a task it would be to correct your glaring imbecility, I’ll pretend I actually appreciate your foolish critique,” 3) “I’ll change that when the sun has blistered the anguished recognition of your own foolishness off the shriveled-up face skin on your corpse” and 4) “I hate you.”

But there are others we use that are slightly more instructive. Two of these come from a writing professor that 3 of us had in college and 1 from the fertile brain of Todd Fahnestock who, as with everything he creates, stole it off another writer.

1) The Pig (courtesy of Todd Fahnestock with thanks to Ken Follett): After reading “The Pillars of the Earth,” Todd noted that the first eighty pages or so are primarily concerned with a man trying to reclaim a lost pig. Todd went on to note how Follett makes the reader care tremendously about this particular pig, flipping pages in rapid succession to see if the man will get his pig back. In the process we get sucked into a very richly detailed world and get hooked by a plot that has exactly nothing to do with said pig. Giles Carwyn, (Todd’s writing partner for the wonderful Heartstone Trilogy), would point out that the pig is what is technically known as a “bridging conflict” in which one is caught up by an immediate but short-lived danger/problem/adventure in order to get from one major part of the book to another (or from the opening into the principal action). The point of this all is that whenever I hit a lull in my dramatic arc I start rooting around like a pig in pig poop (in a Todd&Giles sex fantasy–for those of you who’ve read Heir of Autumn) for a pig of my own.

2) The Raft (courtesy James Yaffe, formerly of The Colorado College) I don’t even remember the precise context any more, but Yaffe often critiqued stories by telling us whether he was or was not “on the raft.” Perhaps he was referring to Huck Finn and how even when the only action in the story was two guys floating on a raft down the Mississippi, Mark Twain made damn sure we were right on the raft with them thanks to the humor, poetry and evocative nature of the language. In our group, being “on the raft” means that you’ll keep turning the pages and enjoying the sights just so long as the writing and storytelling maintain the same quality.

3) The Bus (again, courtesy James Yaffe) I think I remember the context for this one. Yaffe always told each class about this very nearly perfect story he once read about two star-crossed lovers who were brilliantly fleshed out by their author such that the reader was completely transfixed wondering if and when the two would finally get together. Everything is flush with building tension until the final scene when the guy walks out of a coffee shop ready to risk everything to win back his love and…he gets hit by a bus. To Yaffe, this was pure laziness on the part of the writer and Yaffe could not abide laziness. He would have been perfectly happy if the couple made it or didn’t, just so long as the resolution grew naturally from the set-up. He would have also been fine with a surprise twist at the end, as long as the twist had some basis in the reality of the story. Throwing in a random accident, however, was the ultimate evil. In my own writing, I have often struggled with endings, and even despite Yaffe’s warning have still managed to muck things up. But then I learned the ultimate truth that made all of my writing exquisitely flawless in all ways. All you have to do is … Ohmigod! What’s that! Oof!

…

Didn’t like that ending?

I see. Good point. I’ll get right on that. Thanks.

I love my writer’s group. I love them like a family. The kind of family you see in prime time television. Not quite the Cosby Show perhaps, or even Everybody Loves Raymond. More like… Hmm. Let me think about it a moment and see if I can come up with a more precise analogy. In the meantime–some facts about our group:

If we’d been perfectly consistent, tomorrow night would mark our 200th session, as we’ve been meeting roughly every two weeks since the summer of 2000. Of course, we haven’t been perfectly consistent, so we’re probably approaching something more like the 150th or even 125th meeting given the reschedules, postponements, and temporary gaps that have occurred over the years. And, of course, when I say “we,” I’m stretching the definition a bit. Todd Fahnestock joined in 2002, followed by Giles Carwyn, Chris Mandeville, Morgen Thomas, and, most recently, Leslie Hedrick. During that time, the other founding members all went on to other places and other things, but the soul of the group has, in my mind, been maintained.

Every writer’s group is different, of course. Some meet online, some in person. Some focus on improv writing, some on revision. Some are supportive and uplifting. Others make fun of you at least once per meeting for each of the previous 142 meetings over the last eight years.

Our typical agenda goes like this. Every two weeks, on Friday nights, we meet at a different member’s house. The host cooks a big meal and we spend the first two hours (at least) eating, talking, and making fun of me. This is followed by another 3 to 5 hours of reading aloud and commenting on each other’s work (and, when appropriate, making fun of me).

We’ve experimented with time limits, but typically reverted to a general free-for-all in which each person reads as much as s/he wants and then we make comments until we’re all talked out. While long, the process does, generally, leave each person with far too much information to assimilate and the desire to give up writing forever and go to work in a war zone, slaughterhouse or forced labor camp where one could hope to find a shred more human decency.

Eureka! The television show we most resemble: America’s Most Wanted–only with a bit less compassion and a bit more ritual homicide. I joke, of course. None of us, not even Morgen Thomas who I do not live in constant fear of, has ever killed. More than three or four people. Ritually. At a time.

Ha ha. I jest, of course. In truth, our group is immensely supportive, but part of that support is that we’re painfully honest and often highly critical. This forces us all to strive constantly to improve and has, I think, made us all better and more prepared for the challenges of publishing. Giles and Todd have recently finished their third book in a 3 book contract with Harper Collins. (If you haven’t already discovered “Heir of Autumn” and the sequel “Mistress of Winter,” you should immediately hop over to Amazon and order your copies.) The rest of us, meanwhile, are getting much closer to our own contracts and I fully expect to celebrate our 300th (roughly) meeting as a group of authors all of whom are published, successful novelists.

(Okay. They just left. Please, if you’re reading this, call 911. I’m locked in Morgen’s basement, bound by strands of human ligament. Wait! They’re coming b…)