Were we really imploding?
Was this fixable?
What the heck happened here anyway?
Reassurance: It’s not a family, a relationship, an excitedly-incorporated idea. No, not even a dedicated and spirited book club of years’ duration.
Years, yes. Dedication, absolutely. Spirit, you bet.
It’s (was?!) a writers’ critique group, started originally in person around 2002, running for years, life getting in the way, then starting up again, online, in 2020. Four writers now, three novels and a work of philosophy. Three of the manuscripts completed, more started. (In the interest of mental health, we are not going to speak of book proposals or agents or the cat’s cradle of the Letter With Which One Queries.) Meeting every 2 weeks well into 2026.
Until a new member wants us to switch to reading whole books at a time rather than the usual bi-weekly chapters from two or three members. Curious and open, we do it—a month to read, two meetings to critique. We read New Member’s book first. So far, so good.
Except. Except, by Meeting 3, 2nd Book, it appears that New Member doesn’t exactly share that spirit with which we have always commented and critiqued. …That belief in each other that means thoughtful consideration, well-posed questions, suggestions that are more helpful than critical. Firmness that is still kind. Humor. Never belaboring an opinion. Um, no name-calling?
Indeed. But already the dogmatics seem to be rubbing off, one author feels obligated to defend another’s work, never before has a meeting felt so on edge.
Next meeting: New Member doesn’t want to take part in further discussion of 2nd Book. Author thereof is rather silenced. Another member has nothing to say, and post-meeting, emails that they’re leaving the group. Organizer emails all, calling for a meeting to regroup. Crickets.
At least I’ll have more time to write…
