The Carlton Fernsby Memorial Library 2nd Tuesday Writers Critique Group

In the air-conditioned conference room, Aberdeen Bedingfield broke out in a sweat. There seated across from her rested the seventy-two-year-old author Harriet Hatterman. Harriet wore a soaked fluorescent green and orange checkered rain-jacket with the hood pulled down to her eyebrows. Harriet did not indicate she knew Aberdeen or anyone else at the table for that matter. “Probably senile by now,” thought Aberdeen.

Mavis Cassidy, known better as Nettie because she wore net stocking with her shorts, opened by pounding with her gavel. “I had to park a block away, so you all know I am not too happy. We have a visitor, so say your name for Harriet’s benefit, and about the piece you submitted online last week for the critique.”

          Mavis waited as Trudy entered shaking her umbrella before sitting. “I am Mavis Cassidy, I write children’s fiction, but because of being busy at work, I did not email anything for this critique. Now let us hear from our visiting author.”

“I am Harriet Hatterman, I write novels about home folk. My agent is asking for another in a series, so I need an honest critique group. I left this group about nine years ago.” Her smoker’s voice reminded Aberdeen of Lauren Bacall from Key Largo. Aberdeen hate Key Largo. “I brought a manuscript that I finished some years ago, but never published. I have three copies of the first two chapters to hand out.”

Mavis asked, “What is the title of your novel, Ms. Hatterman?”

           “Please call me Harriet.” She zipped opened her plastic Staples pouch, using her hand to wipe away a few remaining raindrops.

“Holy crap,” thought Aberdeen, reading the title upside down through her fogged over glasses.

Harriet rumpled the yellow-aged papers as she looked for the title. “I didn’t bring the cover page,” she lied. “But I remember it as Turn Back Before River Road.” She smirked at Aberdeen.

Waiting to see if anyone else spoke, he said, “I am Emmett Primer, author of twenty-three God ordained nonfiction books on the Old Testament. Two in hardback.” He looked over his reading glasses. “Aberdeen, didn’t you published a book a few years back called Turn before the River?”

The lump in Aberdeen’s throat prevented her from speaking immediately. “Yes, of course, but my book-agent published it ten, maybe twelve years ago.” She nodded her head as she looked around the table. She ignored looking at Harriet. Her head continued to bob for twenty seconds more.

“Interesting”, said Mavis using her gavel to point to the next person to speak.

“Raymond Cowart here, department head of laundry services at the hospital for twelve years to be exact. My poet name is Randy Dandy; rhymes you know. I submitted one poem for review.” He looked over to Harriet. “Wasn’t your husband the manager at Winn Dixie before they closed?”

“You remember my Bosco? My goodness. Yes, after it closed, Bosco transferred to keep his retirement pension. After his death, I came back here to live out my years.” They all looked to the window as lightening lit up the parking lot.

           Raymond said, “It was a dark and stormy night.” He did not even get one response.

Mavis asked who wanted their piece critiqued? Emmett Primer’s hand always shot up first. “Go ahead enlighten me about Second Samuel.” He crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and leaned back.

Raymond looking up from his laptop said, “Google says here that Turn Before the River was published just eight years ago by Birmingham Press out of Memphis. Is this correct?”

Aberdeen started mumbling, then sighed, “With so many books, I cannot remember exact dates. This library closes at eight, so let us continue.” She looked to Mavis for support.

“Five books aren’t so many.” Harriet's lips made a slight upward curve. “All paperback. Two through an agent. Last one sold eight copies on Amazon.” A few muttered.

Mavis’ gavel stirred the conversation back to the critique. Everyone agreed that Emmett Primer’s 4378 words were perfect and made complete sense. No back-and-forth discussion on Two Samuel. Another self-published book in the making.

Aberdeen prayed silently, “Why did I carpool tonight?”

Trudy Elmore, AKA Pebbles Nighty, asked to go next. She reviewed her screen and looked around the table. It was a full minute before Mavis spoke, “Not my kind of story, I enjoy a little romance, but this is downright distasteful. Who in God’s name buys this stuff? What goes on in the bedroom should remain there and not in print. Any way it is professionally written, and I understood everything that went on. More tongue than a dentist office. Mercy me.” She used her hand to fan herself.

Emmett clued in, “How many times did you say you read it?” Mavis blushed.

Raymond said, “I loved it, felt the emotion of the antagonist. The developed, I mean the development of her character arc. How the story line never varied away from the plot. The set ups were fulfilled. Few adverbs. Showing, not telling. What is a décolleté?” Trudy touched her cleavage. “Oh, yeah. Now it makes sense about the tattoo. Stunning stuff, ready to go to the publisher. Need a beta reader?” Everyone nodded except Emmett Primer.

After two more comments from others, it was time for another critique. “Do my poem,” said Raymond. “Short and sweet.” Everyone said they enjoyed it except Harriet since she had not read it.

With lips pouched, Aberdeen said, “I guess you all can critique my work. The best for last.” She looked to Harriet and said, “Sorry you didn’t have the chance to read this. It is an excerpt from my latest book series called Grapevine Meadow. I submitted chapters eleven and twelve for tonight. Chapters one to six are sitting on my agent’s desk.” She motioned with her head to Mavis to get the critique going again.

Harriet startled everyone, “Maybe in your agent’s garbage can!” Mavis’ mouth dropped open. “The protagonist should have seen his neighbor’s dog on his porch if he was drinking coffee by the sliding glass door. And his wife couldn’t have been in bed if she were the one who made the coffee. Don’t you use a timeline? And the backstory about the sun shining on the barn made him remember his eighth-grade sweetheart, barf, made little sense to me at all. Plain boring! How many passive verb sentences can one have on seven pages? Haven’t you edited any of this? I can see why your agent dropped you!” Everyone sat up straight, all eyes on Aberdeen.

“Miss Harriet are you sure you haven’t read this?” said Trudy. “We usually call story characters by their names.”

“Names probably changed.” She cracked her knuckles. “The flight attendant’s pregnancy changed everything.”

Aberdeen leaned across the table and pointed her finger in Harriet’s face. “She didn’t say she was pregnant until chapter 15, I have you know.”

“This is goooood,” Raymond said as he rubbed his hands together.

“Is there a Reverend so and so, his wife named Susan Rene or another double name, who played the piano, and neither forgave his stepmother for all those awful words she said about them buying that fixer-upper house on Rutledge Row with her grandmother’s money after they got married?”

“Are you suggesting I plagiarized?”

“Stole is a better term, but first let me consult my thesaurus.” Harriet pretended to open a book and glanced from page to page.

Raymond pecked on his computer. “Swipe, pilfer, rob, defraud, pinch. Glad I came tonight, even in this downpour.”

“Who in the hell invited you, you old bitty? You are nothing but an old senile woman who used to show up at this critique years ago, who left a cardboard box full of papers at…” Aberdeen put her hand to her mouth. “Finders keepers, looser weepers.”

“Your now ex-sister-in-law enlightened me about you publishing my books. You piece of juicy dog crap!” Harriet only used Baptist terminology.

“Well! Granny Thirty-Two Books and Counting, you stink like your Barnes & Noble novels. And by God, I mean it! We all mocked your pink galoshes when you arrived.” Aberdeen’s face burned crimson. Trudy pretended to take notes and snuck a side wink at Emmett.

Raymond raised his hand, looking for recognition. “I didn’t notice any pink galoshes.”

“Mavis take me home. I cannot have my godly reputation assaulted by a delusional Episcopalian.” Raymond adjusted his chair, placing both elbows on the table in full listening mode.

“If you read the final chapter, you would have made revisions in chapter thirteen. If you steal, by God, do it right and not embarrass the author. Who in their right mind changes a name like Rose to Sunflower, and assumes no one will notice?”

“Aberdeen have you ever published anything of your own?” Emmett stood as he continued preaching in her face. “You crook. A harlot camouflaged. The Benedict Arnold of The Carlton Fernsby Memorial Library 2^nd Tuesday Writers Critique Group or as my email subject reads: TCFML2TWCG! And to think, I have to work with your husband.” His voice now louder than the storm outside. Others joined in.

 “Now we all know why your writing became better after you switched your genre.”

Mavis tried her best to bring the group back to order.

A librarian stuck her head in the door with a finger to her lips. The room became dead battery quiet. “Enough with the hammer, lady. The library will close in thirty minutes, please bring any items you want to check out as this time to the front desk.” She lingered in the quietness for a moment, rolled her eyes and disappeared.

Mavis stood, hands in prayer mode. “The next meeting will be on the tenth. Harriet, nice to meet you and please leave me your email.” She turned and said, “Aberdeen, remember I locked the car.” Aberdeen had already exited the library into the parking lot.

Trudy picked up Aberdeen’s forgotten umbrella. Everyone laughed. Harriet with two fists in the air said, “Touché.”