I should have realised this. I like to write, which I suppose makes me a writer and I'm a bit weird. OK, so I'm a lot weird. A lot weird? A writer, who are you kidding? To be a writer, much of your time is spent inside your own head. You think about imaginary people. You wonder how you could fit the words polyglot and verdant into your story, just because you like them. You have notebooks in your handbag and you write down things people say in coffee shops, concerts, at bus stops and in the pub. You don't need to actually talk to people because the story you make up about them is much more interesting.
A little while ago, I took an on-line fiction writing course. Part of the course encouraged you to share your work and have others comment on it. A few people decided to form a group to email each other our work. I thought that would be useful. Critical readers could help me find the times I've used a semi colon when it should have been a colon, or where I've changed tense in the middle of a story, or where I've used the word amazing ten times in a paragraph. People who could tell me if my story is exciting enough to carry on with, or whether I should consign it permanently to the tired (I meant to type tried but tired is just as appropriate!) and failed pile.
The idea of these impartial readers appealed to me. Family and friends can only read so much besides which I am currently writing a short story about a woman who kills her husband by pushing him into a canal in Amsterdam and I don't want them to get worried about the LSH.
I tried my best to be a member of this group. I read and reviewed the others' work and I sent some of my own in but I forgot that writers are weird. I forgot that writers are the best procrastinators on the planet.
First of all there were emails about the name of the group. I ignored all the emails. I didn't care about names. No one ever gets my name right anyway. They decided on Four Corners, for reasons I can't remember, or more likely, wasn't very interested in, in the first place.
Then there were a series of emails working out a complicated admin system, with a coordinator, spreadsheet and a system of how many pieces could be reviewed at once. They decided that we would take it in turns to be the coordinator.
Then there were about a million emails about whether people minded whether someone told the organisers of the on-line course that we had started a group. I didn't reply. It didn't bother me either way, so long as I didn't have to talk to anyone.
Then the person who had spoken to the course organisers emailed to say that she had suffered a senior moment when being interviewed and got the name wrong. She called the group, "Four Winds." I replied. Not that I cared about the name but I thought it was quite appropriate for a group of people who were full of hot air. I didn't say that. I'm not that rude but I did say that I thought it was a funny name and that I was capable of producing four types of wind all on my own. No one laughed. They thought the name issue was very serious.
When they had settled the name issue, there were emails about sending biographies, photos and someone was going to make a logo for the group. I didn't reply. I just wanted someone to review my writing. I didn't want friends. I'm not very good at friends (you might have guessed).
Then in one day, I received 22 emails with the subject line, "Suggestions for reducing emails." I had to laugh. I replied. I toned it down. I didn't say, "Oh for fucks sake, stop sending emails and just fucking write!" but that was the gist. Oh dear. I'd offended everyone. I told you I wasn't good at friendship.
Eventually, it was my turn to be coordinator and that is where I have failed and had to leave the group. I didn't send out enough emails. I didn't use the spreadsheet. The group were very disappointed in me and so I have left. I'm not too worried because everyone was being too nice. All these lovely friends were now just telling each other how brilliant they were.
Now, there are no emails to read and so I will just have to get back to killing my husband, fictionally speaking of course. The Long Suffering Husband is safe......for now.
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