Authors Anonymous

Callie Fannin walked quickly through the library's foyer, maintaining the sacred silence as best she could. Taking a left, she found herself in front of one of the community room doors. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans. Why was she so nervous? A notice taped to the door read: ‘Author’s Anonymous Writing Workshop - Instructor Theodore Wolfe, 2PM-4PM every third Saturday of the month.’ It was one-forty-five; she had plenty of time. While contemplating the flyer and her own discomfort, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a young man in a hoodie. His blue eyes behind his black rimmed glasses looked at her with a gentle confusion. “Excuse me, I need to get in.” His voice was deeper than any she had heard before.

“Oh, sorry.” She moved back to let the man into the room. He opened the door and the sound of lively voices drifted out. He continued to hold it open.

“Umm, are you coming to the meeting too?”

“Oh, yes, yes, thank you,” She pulled her purse closer to her side as she followed him into the room. It was a simple conference room with windows along one side and a U-shape arrangement of tables in the middle. Callie chose an empty seat beside an older woman with curly, gray hair. The woman smiled at Callie, her teeth bright against her dark completion. The simple gesture helped loosen the knot in Callie’s stomach.

“I don’t recognize you. Is this your first time here, Honey?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m Callie.”

“Nice to meet you, Callie. You can call me Mrs. Rosie. Here, you need one of these.” Mrs. Rosie grabbed a name tag sticker and a marker from the center of their table. Mrs Rosie watched Callie as she wrote her name in swirling cursive and stuck the name tag to her blouse. “What made you want to come to our little meeting here today? Do you write?”

“A friend told me about it, so I decided to check it out. And yes, I do write, but I’m, well…trying to get back into it.”

“Well, Ms. Callie, I hope this helps.”

“Thanks. What do you write?”

“I write little short stories for my grandkids. My last one was about a fox and hen. They loved it.”

“That’s sweet of you.” Callie’s eyes drifted to the other people in the room. There were so many new faces. Maybe too many. Mrs. Rosie gave Callie’s hand a little pat. “We’re all friends here, Honey, no need to be anxious. Just ask any of us anything and we’ll be more than happy to help.”

Callie thanked her then discreetly went back to surveying the people in the room. It had almost become second nature to observe the people around her, if only to distract herself. Their looks, clothes, and patterns of speech could all be stored in her mind and utilized later in her writing. The group around her was an eclectic one. There was a man bouncing a toddler on his knee. Another middle aged man was sipping a coffee while talking to a very expensively dressed woman. Three teenage girls also sat at one one corner of the tables, seemingly in deep discussion about a book they were all reading. And, of course, Mrs. Rosie sat to her right, sharpening a pencil with a sharpener that looked like a little cat. In total, there were twelve people. Callie’s eyes ended their travels on the young man who had opened the door for her. He sat directly across from her on the other arm of the U-shaped configuration of tables. He looked about her age, and his name tag read ‘Eugene.’ He looked up and she expertly looked away as if she hadn’t been staring. When she glanced back, he was taking out a notebook from his messenger bag. She followed suit, grabbing a small, coil-bound notebook from her purse. The email about the workshop had said to only bring paper and a pencil. Callie had opted for her favorite pen instead.

The door opened and a lanky man walked in. He looked like the type of person you’d find sitting behind a desk somewhere in Old England, with a cat on his lap and a pipe within arms reach. His impressive beard and tweed jacket completed the look. He smiled warmly at the group as they greeted him, the crows-feet at the corners of his eyes creasing gently. Callie liked him immediately.

“Good afternoon, everyone, my name is Theodore Wolfe, but you can call me Theo.” His voice was surprisingly soft. His brown eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he looked around. “I see a few new faces today. Welcome. If everyone could please give a short introduction, then we’ll get started.” Everyone introduced themselves, sharing their names, age, occupation, and writing endeavors. Callie, being at the end of the line, went last. She smiled, hoping it showed more ease than she felt.

“Hello, my name is Callie Fannin. I’m twenty-seven and currently work as a bank-teller. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, so I’m hoping this workshop will help me to get started.”

“Thank you, all,” said Theo. He walked in the space between the tables. “For those who are new, we usually spend the first thirty minutes or so *talking about any writing issues we’re having before we start writing.”

Mrs. Rosie leaned over to Callie. “This part can get kinda long, but it’s a good place to ask questions and get some advice.” Callie smiled at Mrs. Rosie’s failed attempt at whispering. Across the way, she saw Eugene trying to hide his own grin.

Theo laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Rosie; we’ll try to keep it short. She has a point though: this is a workshop, not a therapy session. If that were the case, I’d charge per hour.” After everyone’s chuckles quieted down, Theo looked expectantly at the surrounding faces. “So, before we dive into our prompt for the day, does anyone have any writing quandaries they'd like to discuss? And, everyone, as always, please feel free to share your own insights if you have them.”

One of the teenage girls, named Giselle, raised her hand. “I’m having trouble picking a good title for my fan fiction. How do you make a good title?”

“Excellent question,” said Theo. “The title should allude to your work in some way. It could be a phrase or keyword from your story. It could also use words that bring up certain themes or ideas you want your reader to focus on or be aware of.”

Samuel, the man who had been drinking the coffee before, spoke up.“Or, you could also make a title that has nothing to do with your story. Keep your readers on their toes.”

“Don’t confuse her.” The man with the toddler, Markus, repositioned his little girl into a more secure position on his lap. “That method could work if your genre is comedy, to subvert your reader’s expectations, but not fanfics. Theo’s right; go with something that gets your stories’ focus across.”

“Does that answer your question, Giselle?” Theo asked.

Giselle and her friends were writing down a few notes in their floral patterned notebooks. Giselle looked up. “Yes, thank you.”

“Anyone else?”

Callie tapped her pen on the yellowed plastic of the tabletop. She could feel the words scratching at the inside of her brain, but she held them back. She looked around at all the strangers in the room. She had never seen a single one of these people before today but, somehow, she knew they would listen. There was something about sharing things with people you didn’t know that was…freeing. She caught Theo’s eyes, and he gave her an encouraging nod of his head. “I…I have a hard time writing sometimes, like I can’t write. Even if I set time aside for it, the words just aren’t there. I can be at work, thinking about what I want to writing in my head, but then when I get home and actually sit down to start writing-”

“The words aren't there?” said Theo.

“Exactly.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Markus.

“The muses strike when they wish,” Samuel sighed. “Oftentimes when we're supposed to be focusing on something else.”

“That’s my problem, I think,” said Callie. “I can’t focus. I get too distracted by other things as I type.”

“Like what?” Theo asked.

Callie tucked her auburn hair bashfully behind her ear . “Like…YouTube? The internet in general, I guess. I open up a tab besides the one I’m writing on and…I’m just gone.”

Theo nodded, rubbing a hand over his beard. “In this day and age, it’s really hard to shut it all out, right? But you have too if you want to see results. You have to shut down all those tabs, lock in, and just write. But it’s easier said than done. Try to work on it. I would suggest finding a writing program that has no internet access. Or, even better, go old school, and just use the original tools of the trade: pencil and paper.”

“But then I’d have to write it out twice,” Callie said. “Once on paper, and then again typing it up.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Callie blinked, thinking about it. “Well, no, I guess not. It would probably be really helpful, wouldn’t it? To write it out twice?”

Theo snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Is it more time consuming? Yes, but it would make you more familiar with your own work. And hey, if it helps you stay off the internet and become more focused, then might as well give it a try, right?”

Callie nodded, jotting the information down as a quick note. Her writing slowed until her pen came to a stop. She had wanted to say more, but felt her main dilemma would be too intimate for the group. Another young woman was asking a question about the use of too many adverbs in her stories, but Callie was no longer paying attention.

“Callie?”

“Yes?” Theo had walked back to her end of the table without her noticing. “Was there something else you wanted to ask?” Callie looked around the expectant faces. Theo gave her a gentle smile. “I’ll take one question for therapy’s sake, if you like? Just this once,” he said quietly.

Callie pursed her lips. A silence had settled into the space, making her uneasy. Theo nodded encouragingly. Callie closed her eyes and took a deep breath; she could do this. “I’m…I’m jealous of other writers.” The words hung in the now quiet room. “I’m jealous. Maybe even envious. I’ve read so many amazing stories. They’re nearly perfect from start to finish, and I feel that my stories will never be able to compare to them and-”

“You can’t do that.” Even having heard it earlier, Callie was still taken aback by how deep Eugene’s voice was.

“And why is that, Eugene?” Theo asked. “Shouldn't you admire other people’s work?”

“Of course.” His eyes met Callie's. “Admiring someone's work, being inspired and motivated by it, that's one thing. But becoming envious to the point of your own self-doubt, isn’t.” At that moment, eyes locked, Callie and Eugene were the only people in the room. “Envy,” he continued. “Jealousy. Doubt. Fear. They’re all things that will eat away at you if you let them. They kill inspiration. You can’t let them get the better of you.”

“That’s hard,” said Callie, her voice small.

“You have to have confidence in yourself and your writing.”

“That’s hard too.”

Eugene grinned. “Something more to practice.”

“Always more practice. Will that practice also make me faster?”

“What?”

“The prompts I’m writing for; you have to finish them in a week.”

Eugene’s eyes widened. “That’s not long.”

“Exactly.”

“Callie, when was the last time you were really writing.”

“Three years ago.”

“And what were you doing then?”

“I was writing a short story every month.”

Eugene nodded, then he smiled, his eyes becoming crescent moons. “Give yourself a little grace, Callie,” he said, his voice softer than before. “You're picking up writing again after a long time and challenging yourself to a format you’re not used to. That’s impressive. And scary. But you can do it. As for all those other writers and their stories…they’re not yours. Each story you write is a piece of you. You're not perfect, so why should your stories be? Let them breathe and stand on their own.”

“What if I can’t do it?” Callie’s hands became little fists in her lap. “What if it's still no good?”

“We all have those doubts. The artist's worst critic is themself, after all. But you can’t let it consume you. Trust me. Find confidence in your words, in your voice, in yourself, and your writing will be better for it. I promise.”

A slow, steady clap brought Callie rushing back to the room and the present moment. “Very, very well said, Mr. Eugene,” said Theo. A few people expressed the same sentiments, thanking him for the encouraging words. Eugene’s face had become noticeably red.

“Just helping another writer out,” he muttered. “That’s what we’re here for, right?” Callie watched him as he rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at her again and she mouthed the words ‘thank you.’ He grinned in return despite himself.

“I think that will end our therapy session for today,” Theo said with a chuckle. “It’s time for some writing. In light of Eugene’s words, I think I will change our focus for the writing portion today. I would like you each to write about writing, how it has changed you, what it means to you, what you want to accomplish through your writing, anything along those lines. It can be a single sentence or a whole page; it’s up to you. We’ll share what we’ve written and discuss it further when we are all done.”

The room fell into a peaceful quiet as everyone began to write, the scratch of pencils filling the air. Callie stared down at the empty page. It always daunted her, that blank canvas. There were too many possibilities and she had to pick one. She glanced at Eugene who was diligently writing across the way. She’d written before, she could do it again. Have confidence in yourself. Callie picked up her pen and began to write. ‘Every story has already been told. But it has never once been told in your voice. What are the stories you want to tell?’