Writer’s groups, the ultimate betrayal.

Okay, that’s maybe a little melodramatic.

Still, I haven’t had good experiences.

Way back when I was still a toddler writer, I put up a sign at the coffee shop I worked at asking for people interested in writing to meet up at a particular time.

Oh, was that not fun.

I got a mish-mash of people, one of whom was a mentally disabled guy who kept writing me love poetry the whole time we were trying to talk. Another guy sat on the back of a chair and said he just wanted to watch, you know, see what the rest of us did. Creep much?

Another woman told the rest of us she was ADD and the meeting place was too distracting. She didn’t seem distracted, just complain-y.

A fourth guy didn’t want to exchange work to critique because he just knew we were going to steal all his amazing ideas from him, plagiarise them, and make millions off of his writing.

The last person there was a real writer who was actually serious and became a critique partner for me after I ditched all the other weirdos. Eventually she moved away. Sad face.

My next attempt was to attend a free public workshop put on by a friend of mine as a thesis project. I was the only person who showed up. It did mean I got a lot of one-on-one attention, but when the thesis project got a passing grade, my friend stopped doing the workshops and moved away.

Then came a short six-week workshop through community ed by another local writer friend. I felt like the workshop leader had some useful advice to give, but my friend who went with me had no real interest in writing, one woman there wanted to cram a huge amount of info into a novella because she didn’t have the attention span for a novel, another woman clearly had NO sense of humor AT ALL, and a fourth was writing a book about a middle-class wife who leaves her husband for another man for no apparent reason, and all she would say was “I knew you guys wouldn’t get it!” I got some good info for my book, and that was the end of that.

My last writer’s group was with a group of middle-aged middle-class women who were all in the teaching profession and all writing teen girl fiction. No shit. I asked if I could join them, they said sure, and that first meeting was pretty damn awkward. I walked in wearing my combat boots and second-hand military issue coat with my multiple earrings and nose ring, and there they sat in their khakis and dress flats and designer shirts and pearls, writing books about teenage girls set in the eighties. Um, live in the real world much?

I tried. I really did. I decided to try going to college around that time, hated it, and decided to quit college. They threw me out when I quit. Threw me out by not sending me any of the pieces up for critique. No one said anything. I had to guess I was unwelcome. At first I was heart-broken. Then I realized that I did not belong there at all. The two women not writing teen fiction were working on bourgeoise pieces that made me want to scream. And if no one had the tits to up and tell me I wasn’t wanted, rather than just avoid me, then it was DEFINITELY the wrong place for loud-mouth me.

Since then, I’ve been on my own. I have two critiquers who do not hate me and whose opinions I deeply, deeply value (Thanks, Sadie and Annie!). I have offered to read their stuff for them, but they haven’t given me anything. I fear I may wind up owing them my first born child for the  help they have given me.

I’ve looked at a few writer’s groups online, but they all seem huge, or not my genre, or you have to read three pieces a month or you’ll get booted to the back of the thousand-person line and you can’t have anything unfit for people under eighteen to read. Fuck, everything I write is unfit for people under eighteen! That’s part of the joy of being a grown-up! I can swear, drink, have sex, have a fight, and that’s my grown-up prerogative. Why the hell shouldn’t my characters do things I enjoy?

So here I am, a lone soul pecking away at my qwerty keyboard, hanging out with my imaginary friends.

If you like urban fantasy and are serious about writing, and are not under eighteen, maybe we could trade pieces? I don’t promise we’ll work out as crit partners for each other, but maybe we will. If you’re not interested, I’ll totally understand. I’ve been there, too.