Community

 Rhinos may be solitary, but writers can't go it alone.

Or at least, that's what I'm reminding myself these days. I've got a lot of drafts--a whole oversize bin of typescripts--all hammered or scribbled out in relative anonymity and the safety of knowing that nobody will ever read them. And without being held accountable for quality, that elided into and nobody has to edit them, either. Because for an audience of one, I don't need to please anyone, or deal with all those linguistic luxuries like "good grammar" and "understandable plot" and "deadly dull dialogue." First drafts are notoriously shitty things, but if they just remain so, then all I have is a bin of... well, crap.

The spark that turned it around was actually investing time to edge out of the reclusive-scribbler comfort zone and get into a safe writerly space. A safe sharing space, specifically, which felt more than a little frightening. I'd been drafting novels for seventeen years, producing in total a rhino-sized load of crap, and feeling that it was fine, just fine. I mean, it is fine, nobody had to see anything, read anything, hear anything. But stepping away from the desk and, in my case, into a class, made all the difference.

Without intending it, seventeen years of plugging away on month-long drafts (farewell, NaNoWriMo) did hone a couple of useful muscles. I can write to a deadline, no problem. I've pretty much got my Inner Critic cowed when it's drafting time. You go sit over there, and when I need feedback I'll call you. I've learned that I write better in analogue than digital, with handwriting and manual typewriting keep my hand about half a sentence behind my brain, and prevent me from farting around online instead of wording. So showing up fresh-faced to a class with gulp other writers and gulp gulp being forced to write quickly and read it aloud afterwards was almost enough to send me scurrying back to the comfort of the bin.

Almost. It turned out fine, just fine. No, ten or fifteen minutes for a prompt response is not producing a masterpiece. My mental adjective- and verb-storage drains out dry as soon as that timer starts. ("She ran fast. She was a fast runner." Oh argh.) And reading aloud is a different animal entirely. But the community makes it OK. We're all in the awkwardness together, flexing our own particular muscles, and trying to pick up tricks from those with better development. ("How does she write those lyrical descriptions in ten minutes?")

Community is the thing I needed, and honestly, I think it's the thing we all need. The more solitary the hobby, the more value we can get from someone else snared up in the same project. It's comfortable in our own heads, in the lovely judgement-free zone where you can be surrounded by the fruits of your labor and not have to care if they've gone off. But community gives that focus, and a little extra drive, and, heaven forbid, actual useful lessons that we can use to grow and thrive. 

🧩 🦏