E.M.Etheridge Author

Joining a Group: A Personal Account

            Joining a writing group was probably one of the smartest moves I could have ever made as a writer. Though, I have to admit that I had ulterior motives when I first joined five years ago. 

            An indie bookstore opened in the center of my hometown, and I heard a rumor that the owner was deeply nestled in the writing industry. I was already curious about the store, because, well, books. Need I say more? So, I followed the business on Facebook and ventured there. 

Side Note: That’s where I picked up my first copy of The Shining by Steven King. 

While I was in there, a sweet girl with a mane of curly brown hair told me about a writing group and did her due diligence in signing me up to their email list. I found the event on their Facebook page, messaged the owner and awaited the response. Truthfully, I could have just walked in one Monday night to try it out, but I was terrified. 

            My social anxiety kicked in and I made up an excuse not to be there the first night and beat myself up over it the rest of the week. When Monday crept around again, I reorganized my Monday night clients, packed my laptop and a Journal into my black leather bag, strapped on my big girl tennis shoes and made my way over there right after work.

            That’s where I met one of my main support systems. A group of unique writers that all focused on different genres, styles and were in different places in their careers. Somewhere independently published, somewhere pulling together their first collection of notes for a story, and others had untouched manuscripts like me.

            Allow me to show, instead of just tell: 

            Our core group five years ago, the ones who have been there the longest and most consistently looked like this. 

A self-published fantasy author/ theater teacher whose northern style critiques cut through the southern charm to give blunt, yet masterful, advice. A compliment from him is equally as impactful. 

A bilingual historical fiction writer who seriously needs an audiobook ASAP because she masterfully intermingles French into the English text to accentuate the beauty and accuracy of the story, as if her amazing descriptions didn’t already raise the bar high.

An Ex-English teacher, who’s still teaching us a thing or two about the art with her unique memoirs and lecture-like writing style. She has sense passed away, but will always be remembered with sheer love and affection.

A partner in crime duo who both write with such wit, every sentence comes with a shot of dinitrogen monoxide. (aka: Laughing Gas)

The same sweet girl who invited me to the group doesn’t know her own potential yet. One day she will see that all infants stumble in the beginning until their legs are strong enough to carry them, the special species of human that is “the writer” are no different. 

And a young man who shares my love of gore, Syfy, and mutations. He’s the perfect representation of my preferred target audience for my series, and way too smart for his own good! He’s snatched up my respect and become one of the only people I’ve ever trusted with a complete copy of my unedited manuscript. 

These are some of the staple members. There are others who have come and gone, or who are less frequent in attendance like the thirteen-year-old crime novelist who never ceases to amaze me, or the sweet poet who actually makes me interested in poetry. I’ve always found that to be an acquired taste like coffee.

            I’d never had someone read my work. A few friends said they wanted too, but never did so the idea of sharing with a group of writers was so much more intimidating than I could have ever imagined. That first night I shied away from reading. I said I didn’t bring anything with me, a blatant and embarrassing lie considering my laptop was poking out of the top of my bag. Instead I listened to everyone else. I listened to the comments, both compliments and corrections. I listened to the tone in which everyone spoke to see who was full of flattery and who was genuinely fascinated. I left that night feeling more comfortable than I had expected, the group was small back then, but it was secure.

            The next week, I came in with a short story I’d written for a contest called “The Game”. My group immediately delved into it. Red pens were drawn, and my draft was lovingly picked apart, if there is such a thing. As insecure as I was, they were gentle when correcting my spelling and grammar. I got input on wording that would help me stay under the maximum thousand-word ruling. “The Game” didn’t win, but it was the first short I’d read to my peers, and for that it holds a special place in my heart though it may never see the light of day outside of that group.

            That one night of success, boosted my courage enough to request a meeting with Sharie, the owner of Main Street Reads. She agreed, and a few days later I met her at the coffee shop. I got there early so I could set up a journal for notes, and so I would have plenty of time to panic over my Nutella Late. 

            We talked for a few minutes about my WIP, and before I knew it, she was typing up an email to introduce me to the woman who is now my editor. 

            The Dominoes have been falling into place since.