I went to a writers meeting last night. I am starting to hate writers meetings.
The meeting room was beautifully decorated, lights hung about the walls and ceiling, art work was displayed and there was wine and food. There was a flu moon and a heavy, greasy smell of the slaughterhouse which is across the valley from the university.
Last night’s focus was on emerging writers and three writers had been picked to read from their published work and then the microphone was thrown open to people to come up and read something of their own.
The three emerging writers that were speaking are very nice young people with very promising futures and very happy outlooks. The problem I had however (and I may have a chip on my shoulder in general) was that they had a lot of confidence. They were able to speak well in front of the crowd, they were funny, engaging and gave across the feeling that they were assured of greatness in the next few years. I hate that.
I like the writers who are wracked with uncertainty, self-doubt and insecurities. I like the angry writers the lost people, the people with a problem who turn to writing to sort these things out.
The emerging writers had written books on various but similar topics. One had written about his time cycling across Mongolia, (something I think is incredible) and another had written a collection of short stories about Cambodia.
They were crowd favorites.
But the work, (what I heard of it) was plain, boring and not great. I did not like it, it was ordinary writing. But they were so confident it was sickening.
It was a great night however and these people gave up their time to come to the group and it was wonderful. I met a nice person at the end of the night who I spoke with and she is becoming an english teacher. You always meet the nicest people at writers groups.