Recently I was visiting a couple of friends at their house when the husband farted.
“Did you just fart?” asked his wife.
“Yes. That’s what people do.”
“I love you so much!” his wife exclaimed.
OK. That is really not the reaction my husband would get from me.
But lately I’ve been going to groups I find on meetup.com and one of them is a free write group, coordinated by Amy Robinson.
About twelve of us meet at a coffeehouse or book store and she gives us writing prompts.
I don’t spend time with any of them outside of the group, but writing with someone connects you to them in a different way.
It is as if you are letting them into your house, your personal space, but a space you will never be able to move out of.
When we share our writing with someone, we are opening the doors to our souls.
“Come in! Come in! This is what I think. This is who I really am. Critique me. Love me. Drink up my feelings and feast on my opinions.”
Especially free writes. I mean, all of that’s unedited.
At the group, when someone reads a piece, the others give positive feedback.
The prompt last Saturday was to write about something that is a big deal to one person but no one else cares.
Well I improvised a story about a girl who thinks she wants to kill herself because the guy who used to stalk her no longer goes to the place where they once met.
After I read it, a long awkward silence ensued. Finally I said, “OK…”
A couple people were nice enough to hurriedly come up with positive comments but they were just being polite.
So when we write a lot, some of our writing can be “farts” so to speak.
I’m not saying my story was. I personally found it to be very funny. Like an inside joke that only I got.
But I’m sure now and then I’ve blogged stupid things.
I just think if someone can read you that way, if they can overstay their visit and never want to leave… maybe the girl in my story wouldn’t kill herself.
Maybe writing’s enough of a reason to keep on living.