Blog — Molly Moynahan

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.

Molly MoynahanJune 23, 2026

What Writing Means to Me

Writing exists in my life free of neurosis or attachment. It has brought me a little fame and money but mainly it has given me purpose, a way to process what sometimes seems impossible to accept or forgive. It has also given me a way to help others. As a writing teacher and coach, I have witnessed students discovering their stories whether based on fact or conjured from dreams and imagination. Writing was a way to change the realities of my childhood. While my parents were brilliant, funny and loving they were also narcissistic and self-destructive. My father’s dedication to his writing and to the writing of others as a respected literary critic made several things clear to me when I was very young. The importance of books was manifest while the writing of them was potentially a form of torture. Witnessing my father’s disappearance into his own writing with the subsequent publishing and frequent frustration when his novels were remaindered convinced me that the life of a writer was a life I wanted to avoid.