Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

My worst fear was now a reality. I, the hotshot teacher who wasn't afraid to face a sobbing five-year-old, was caught flat-footed. Time to be straight with these people who I'd probably never see again. "I hope to write a children’s book, maybe a picture book. I don't have a story yet, but I might do something about the Civil War."

I thought of that old cliché: you could hear a pin drop. But the rugs were too plush.

Finally, shy Denise piped up in the awkward silence. "That's different." Her voice was thin like a delicate strand of thread. "I'm thinking of trying something in the romance genre."

“Oh, Denise,” Gretchen declared. “I don’t think it is the type of story you should even consider doing.” Gretchen made her pronouncement without looking at the small woman who sank back in her chair. “You’re better off sticking to poetry,”

Taking charge, Maureen put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Emma, have you studied the accepted framework of a picture book?”

I almost laughed with relief. “Not exactly, but I’ve read a lot of them.”

“You should become acquainted with it first, then think about the characters in the story.”

Gretchen cleared her throat to draw everyone’s attention. “Emma, I’m not sure this group can be any help,” she said, dismissing my interest in books for children. “But you’re welcome to participate in one of our writing exercises.”

 She passed sheets of blank paper around to everyone with a flourish. I could feel a tightness starting in my chest. Oh, how I wished I had a car outside and could escape. Of course, that would mean I’d have to drive and I’m not sure which activity scared me more right now.

The ladies sitting around the table went through their writing rituals. One concentrated on selecting the appropriate pen from a fat pouch while another opted for a pencil. One meticulously put a lined piece of paper underneath the blank sheet so the words would be straight while another one closed her eyes for a Zen moment. Zelda dug deep into her colorful tote, pulled out a tiny doll that looked like a Smurf with ratty purple hair, and put it next to her paper. I wanted to ask if that was her muse, but I didn't dare. Optimistic Denise asked for a second piece of paper in case she hit her stride.

Catherine seated on the other side of me mumbled, “or gets wordy as usual.”

"The exercise this evening," Gretchen proclaimed, "is to spend fifteen minutes creating a no-good, very-bad antagonist. Because, as I always say, if you don't have an exceptional antagonist, you don't have a story. Ready? I'm timing you. Begin now."

I stared at the blank page, rolling my favorite pen between my fingers. I thought of some of my favorite stories for children. They didn't have dark, complicated antagonists. The Brothers Grimm themselves would have fit in well with this group.

“Fair warning,” Gretchen proclaimed. “One minute.”

The doorbell rang and Gretchen sang out, “Come in.”

TJ walked into the dining room and took a small step back when faced with all the admiring ladies. I don't think I was ever so relieved to see anyone in my life. "I'm here to pick up Emma," he said. “but I see I’m early. I’ll wait outside in my truck.”

He turned to leave, but I wasn’t going to let him go. “NO!” The ladies all stared at me. “No,” I repeated calmly. “I mean, it’s been a long evening for me, and I think it would be good for me to go now.  You know, with my leg and all.” It was the first time that I had used my physical condition as an excuse, but there was never a better time to start.

The ladies got up to walk me to the door so they could talk to TJ. While they were fussing and tittering about my handsome chauffeur, Maureen shook my hand, slipping me a small piece of paper. When she gave me a gentle hug, she whispered, "That’s my phone number. If you want to talk about writing, give me a call. I'll come to you."

As we walked out the door, the ladies called out, “See you next month and bring your good-looking driver.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“At risk of sounding foully pompous I think that writers' groups are probably very useful at the beginning of a writing career.”

—Bernard Cornwell

Once TJ and I had escaped to the porch, he shot me a look of disbelief. “A cane? When did you graduate to a cane?”

“Not now.”  I caught his arm and leaned on the handrail. “Get me out of here.”

Once in the truck and heading down the main road, TJ said, "Now, are you going to tell me—"

I interrupted quickly. “How wonderful your idea was to go to this writers group? Absolutely not! It was the worst evening I've spent since I went on a blind date in high school."

He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "No, that’s not fair,” I said softly. “The idea of going to a writers group was a good one. It’s just that this one was horrible. I've read that a good writers group is supposed to support you in whatever you want to write and will make thoughtful, constructive suggestions. That is vital. Writing is hard, especially for someone just starting. Having the right kind of support can make all the difference."

I grunted as I remembered their reaction to my teaching career and my kids. “The only thing these ladies are interested in is a good glass of wine, dinner, and an opportunity to snipe at each other. No, change