Sartre Was Right: “Hell Is Other People”
“Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” —Virginia Woolf
Recently, I have had two weird experiences when attending writers' groups. One was definitely for anyone who writes, whether songs, limericks, stories, or poetry; the other was a group of supposed “published” writers. I attended the first one reluctantly, invited by a neighbor who mistook my identity as a “writer” for someone who wants to write, who writes as a hobby or as a long-postponed dream of a future. This group started with the leader's arrival, who unpacked several bottles of wine and led a sort of insider exchange of information about bears and snow (we are in northern Michigan). Soon, a member displayed agitation of a sort I associate with homeless people yelling at strangers, made worse by his consumption of alcohol. While I was reading a story and was greeted with a small amount of praise, I sensed this was not the purpose of this gathering. I recognized my approach to my work, the work of a writer, was not going to be appreciated by the others who spoke of the “torture” of creating. It started to feel like a hostile support group with the agitated member focusing on me and demanding an answer to the question, "Why do you write?" After remaining to show my support for another reader, I fled.
photo by David Iskander
The second experience happened after I ran into a friendly couple while hiking; my usual state of cluelessness was compounded by my inability to read a map. They were kind and suggested I follow them to my car, and as we walked, the woman introduced herself as a writer and invited me to attend a group in the nearby city. Despite my doubts about writing groups, I agreed to attend this gathering, which was mainly made up of self-published writers and several others who had been published by a local press. We sat at a long table, and across from me was a very grumpy man who had apparently been treated shabbily by that same press. He was also annoyed that no one asked him about his writing, even though he made no attempt to ask the others present any questions.
While I didn't feel as confused and annoyed as I felt after the first experience, I found myself silently deciding not to attend any more writing groups as a participant. If a group wanted me to teach something or discuss my soon-to-be-published novel, I would be happy to show up. But I would no longer masquerade as someone who needed support in my writing process because I actually don't need it.
Having published three novels with another one debuting in October, I might wonder how a support group for writers could help me feel less alone in my craft. When I mentioned to the director of my MFA program that I was self-conscious about already having a book deal, he asked me, "Do you have nothing to learn?" a terrific question and one that made this writer nourished by masters of fiction writing like Dickens, Margaret Drabble, Woolf, Hemingway, Lawrence, and Joyce, feel humbled. But humility can be less helpful when trying to find peers in this writing job. The loneliness I feel is the solitary reality of being a working artist without a reason to collaborate. Yes, I have much to learn, but those lessons have to be taught to me by those who are better than me, and at this stage of my career, without humility, those writers are rare. But they do exist, and while I may not be able to socialize with them, I can read their work and feel inspired.
I swim three mornings a week at Masters. I'm slow, I can't do butterfly, and I'm often confused by the cryptic language used to describe our workouts. I lose count, and I can't do a flip turn. While I keep showing up despite my lack of skill, I find that praise of any sort – "your stroke is better," "I like your suit" – fills me with joy. It isn't like this with writing. Although it is lovely to know you have moved or engaged someone with your writing, those compliments don't fuel my ambition. The truth is, I'm not sure I ever completely believe the person who tells me how much they like my work. Possibly this is the secret to my persistence, not believing the positive feedback while mostly ignoring the negative. When I am asked, "Are you still writing?" I respond, "Yes, it is what I do." I don't need reassurance or pity. Being rejected means I exist, which is helpful. For now, I exist without a writing group unless one sleepy tuxedo cat counts.
–Molly Moynahan