Therapy

I imagine that a good critique group is something like therapy or analysis. I've always thought an analyst would run shrieking from the room if he or she met me, but my critique group seems to stick it out--we have, in one form or another for 15 years.

But here's why I think that they are similar. I presume if you go to analysis, you go thinking, "Here am I, here is my mess, now help me spend six months of my life guiding me so that I emerge being far less of a mess." I imagine when you start with an analyst, you wonder if you will even get along, and then at some point, some trust is established and you get to say, "Okay, I walked through the door saying THIS was my mess . . . but guess what, dude, THIS is the really dark stuff . . . THIS is actually my mess."

And if you have every completed a novel . . . I imagine that scenario is somewhat familiar, since it's never a straight shot all the way through and there are times you wonder if the thing can even be salvaged.

I'm playing with a proposal because it's "that time" in my author cycle. And I am all over the map with it. And it dawned on me that thank the sea monkey gods (makes sense if you read yeasterday's post) I trust my group because bringing a new concept is rather like saying, "All right, here is my vulnerability . . . do you think I'm nuts?"

And in the end, a therapist cannot fix anyone. Neither can a crit group. All they can do is talk you in from the ledge if you need it and force you to get honest with yourself.

Thoughts?

Phi Beta Writa

I love meeting other writers. It's why I have this blog. Why I have writer pals. Why I had the chat last night. As Liz Wolfe wrote me after the chat, it's almost as fun talking with other writers about writing as it is doing the actual writing.

Especially when I am procrastinating (which is often).

But I think the main reason I love talking about writing is it's the ONE time I feel like I belong. I have wandered my whole life as an outsider, feeling different, feeling eccentric or odd or even lonely. In my head more than in the world sometimes--until I had children (in which case, a Demon Baby who has found a permanent Sharpie pen will pull you into the world faster than you can say "Demon on the loose!"). And constantly . . . and I mean constantly . . . I have this brain that never rests. Other people can zone out. I have to FORCE myself to rest my brain. It's both the most wondrous aspect of my life . . . and the one thing that tires me out sometimes.

Now, when I was in college, I was in Phi Beta Kappa. There was a ceremony. Tuxedos. A velvet dress. A secret handshake. A gold key that I am not even sure where it is anymore. A piece of sheepskin. A banquet. But you know? It wasn't like I "related" to the other people. We didn't all high five each other and go, "Cool, now we're in this club."

Nope. This blog and my critique group are the closest I will ever come to having a crew. A posse. A gang. A sorority. A fraternity. It's the closest I ever come to feeling understood.

It's Phi Beta Writa.

Wanna join?

P.S. Oldest Daughter says this is for losers. But who cares? I'm having a kegger anyway.