Saturday, December 15, 2018
I Went to Writer's Group
A writer’s group that has been going for over a year? Who says writers are flaky and non-committal? I attended my first Writer’s Group Wednesday after dodging it for a while. I knew I would go eventually, but I was just waiting for the right day; the right day is the day I want to go and not just the day I agreed to go or felt pressured to go or felt I should go. The right day is the day I want to go. That day was Wednesday.
It’s intimidating - writing in front of others. They get to hear my first draft? Nobody ever reads my first draft. I can’t hardly stand to read my first drafts. First drafts are born to be euthanized. First drafts are like the first time a rabbit shits and then eats it and then shits again. Give me at least two shits before I let you read it. That’s only civilized.
There’s a word for rabbits eating their own shit you know. Benji will have to remind me of it. Oh yea, “coprophagy.” Who knows this kind of stuff - rabbits eat their own droppings? Rabbits and Dancing Rabbits know this kind of stuff apparently. 3 of the 6 scribes in Writer’s Group were like, “Yea, I knew rabbits did that. My mom had a rabbit.”
I need to get out more. Wait a minute, I am out. I got out. I got out of my comfort zone and into the Twilight Zone. Soul-fracking as it may be, I know this is good for me. I didn’t know I was in for an education on rabbit coprophagy, (Cop-ro-Fay-jee) but I knew I was in for something. And it’s something, let me tell you.
My new food co-op requires members to be engaged in “deep work”, whatever the hell that is, in order to remain in the co-op. Getting up in the morning here at DR, lighting a fire, figuring out how to feed myself, not saying, “You guys,” and learning about poop-eating rabbits is about all the deep work I can handle at this point. Starting a new life here at DR is “deep work.”
Every single day I feel like my life is a continuous first draft that will never get to be edited. It’s just flapping out there in the breeze for the whole village to see. That’s okay. Nobody has asked me to leave yet, and there’s hot cider, an orange fire, and clacking keyboards here at Writer’s Group in The Mercantile. This is Writer’s Heaven. No wonder it’s been going over a year.
Sorry for typing so loud, by the way. It’s my first draft. I’ll eat it later.