When the Humor was Done and Gone

Elliot Wilner is a retired neurologist, living in Bethesda, MD. In retirement, he has enjoyed, with his wife’s indulgence, a long-deferred dalliance with creative writing. He can be reached at 301-320-2478 or ecwilner@verizon.net

When the Humor Was Done and Gone: A Memoir

2633 words

The brie and the hummus, with an assortment of crackers, were already arranged on the coffee table, flanked by a couple of bottles of Chianti. Looking out my living room window, I see two cars coming up the driveway, and then I spot two more cars that have just crested the hill and are nearing the driveway. Four cars, each carrying a member of our Humor Writers’ Critique Group. They have all journeyed from distant points in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area and are now converging on my house in the suburb of Bethesda. All are coming to pay their respects. The event was scheduled for three o’clock today, and it is now one minute past the hour. The visitors’ punctuality is admirable, but it is, I feel, befitting this solemn occasion: Just two weeks earlier, our very own, dearly beloved Humor Writers’ Critique Group died a sudden death and left us all bereft.

We had originally expected this to be a celebratory occasion for our writers’ group, when we would finally, after many months of interacting only via Zoom, meet one another in person for the first time, to share some wine and brie, as well as critiques of one another’s stories. This in-person meeting had been intended as a celebration of our twenty-one-month partnership, but, out of the blue, not long after the meeting had been scheduled, our writers’ group expired. None of the participants in the group expired, only the group expired. And the humor expired. What had originally been scheduled as a celebration, a meet-and-greet party, had quite unexpectedly become a meet-and-fare-thee-well party, a sort of wake, an occasion to mourn The Little Writers’ Group That Once Was.

The imminent expiration of our writers’ group was foretold two weeks earlier, when the five of us were wrapping up our regular Wednesday evening meeting on Zoom and were all in a good humor (as expected of the members of a Humor Writers’ Critique Group.)Moya asked that we all stay on Zoom for a few minutes more to discuss a “business matter.” That was a surprising request, considering that during the prior twenty-one months of virtual meetings, which were held every two weeks without fail, there had rarely been any need to discuss “business.” Moya was our leader, our facilitator, who had taken it upon herself to organize this special writers’ critique group at the outset of the pandemic, in early March 2020. And she had faithfully served as our facilitator and Zoom host ever since. We all depended on Moya, we knew that the group would not survive without her. And now she was calling a “business meeting” to inform us of her departure – effective immediately! It was a total surprise, verging on shock. Moya said something about the necessity of her taking on a part-time job -- on top of her full-time job as a government contractor -- that would not allow her the time needed to submit her own work or to critique other members’ work. She expressed the hope that someone else in the group would take on the responsibilities of Zoom host and facilitator. But no one came forward.

That’s how our Humor Writers’ Critique Group died – a quite abrupt death. The group had enjoyed robust good health for twenty-one months and now, of a sudden, without any prior indication of ill health, it was dead. Moya’s allusion to “a part-time job” as the reason for her departure was a puzzlement: The rest of us were more than a little curious to know just what sort of job she would be undertaking. It was none of our business, of course, but still, after twenty-one months and more than a hundred hours together on Zoom, weren’t we entitled to a bit more of Moya’s confidence? Was she really walking out on us? Moya conceded that she really did owe us some explanation, and she promised to provide more details at our upcoming in-person meeting. So, for the next two weeks we could only guess what Moya meant by a “part-time job.” Could that be an oblique reference to a new boyfriend? Or had she been recruited as a spy for the CIA?

Once the four guests had entered my house and had been fortified with some Prosecco and brie, we gathered in the living room to reminisce: Moya, Will, Linda, Adam and myself.None of the guests quite matched up physically with the images that I had formed of them from our many Zoom encounters. This one was a lot taller, that one a lot shorter, another a good bit heftier than I had imagined. The reality shouldn’t have come as a surprise, I know, since everyone is seated during a Zoom session and in most cases only the person’s face and neck are visible, but it was disconcerting at first. No matter, the voice and personality of each person proved to be true to the impression that I had gained from our many Zoom meetings, and I enjoyed the comfortable feeling that comes from being among a group of old friends.

One other member was missing from our group that day: Barbara, who lived on a farm in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont and had been admitted to our group only four weeks before it dissolved. We had been content, until then, to remain a small coterie of writers, just the five of us. Barbara had been motivated to apply, she told us, after she read a review of writers’ groups around the country in the Style Section of the New York Time. Our group had been singled out by the reviewer because it was the only group that identified itself specifically as a humor writers’ group. Moya informed us, shortly after Barbara joined our group, that she had received applications from several other writers after publication of the NYT review. Isn’t it amazing, she commented, how much cachet can be derived from a simple mention in the NYT?

The first order of business at our in-person meeting was, of course, to interrogate Moya. Why, we asked her, are you abandoning the ship? What kind of part-time job could justify this betrayal of your comrades? Moya apologized, sort of, and then she divulged that two weeks ago she had signed a book contract! For twenty-one months, every two weeks, we had all joined in critiquing chapter after chapter of her book, and now –- to everyone’s surprise -- it was going to be published! She thanked us profusely for all the help that the group had rendered her but reiterated that she would no longer have time for the group, because she would soon be embarking on a book tour and scheduling numerous interviews. Her book chronicled numerous stories dealing with her own romantic life -- not so elegantly written, in my opinion, but hey, sex does sell, doesn’t it? It was perfectly understandable that Moya should take full advantage of a book contract, yet it still seemed as though she was walking out on us. Whatever, we all wished her well, of course.

The five of us spent the rest of the afternoon eulogizing our lately departed Humor Writers’ Critique Group. We congratulated ourselves for having forged such a harmonious clique over the past twenty-one months, despite being only virtually acquainted with one another the whole while. (On the other hand, a case could be made that the virtual relationship had been actually advantageous, perhaps enhancing our group’s harmony. Who knows?) I was the only one of the five who hadn’t any previous experience with writers’ groups, and I was pleased to hear the others say that our group had been more productive and more congenial than any of the groups they had joined in years past. (Again, who knows? Eulogies do tend to be reffusive.)

After we had finished eulogizing our dearly beloved Humor Writers’ Critique Group, each of us took the opportunity to tell a personal story. We told these stories from memory, and the only stipulation was that the story should be humorous. We sat in the living room for several hours, enjoying one another’s stories and finishing off four bottles of wine. By then it was half-past six in the evening and time to bid one another goodbye. We hugged and promised that we would all keep in touch and arrange a reunion sometime in the coming year, after the covid pandemic had finally run its course. Soon enough, after the guests had retrieved their coats and scarves and departed, I was sitting by myself in the living room. There was a little wine left in one of the bottles, which I poured into my glass, and as I sipped the wine I mused on my “career” as a writer. How had writing affected my life thus far? Would I continue to write?

I had retired from the practice of medicine seventeen years earlier, and then – with my wife’s indulgence – embarked upon a long-deferred dalliance with creative writing. It wasn’t quite an obsession, more a dalliance, but it occupied many hours of my week. Had it proved to be satisfying? Yes and no. How best to measure a writer’s satisfaction quotient? One commonly accepted metric is publication: How many of a writer’s stories, essays, poems, etc., that he/she submits to literary journals are accepted and published? On that score I have failed miserably. Over the course of nineteen years, approximately, I have had two dozen pieces accepted for publication; and at least ten times that many submissions have been rejected.

The emotional impact of the rejections has far outweighed that of the acceptances. When a piece is accepted, I view that as nothing more than my due; but when a piece is rejected, it engenders real frustration and even resentment: Damn! How could they? I have come to think of the submission process as a lose-lose game: An editor who rejects my piece is, prima facie, a totally incompetent idiot. I need to restrain myself from remonstrating with that editor, Don’t you recognize literary excellence when it’s staring you straight in the face? On the other hand, when an editor has accepted my piece – after a dozen other perfectly competent editors have rejected it! – I conclude that he or she must be, ipso facto, a totally incompetent idiot. I’m tempted to ask that editor, How far down the literary food chain must you be that my oft-rejected piece actually appears publishable to you? The only editorial judgement that is really meaningful, I am convinced, is a first-submission acceptance. And I have had only four of those in the past nineteen years. Has the time maybe come for me to quit this game?

I’m not sure if I’ll be joining another writers’ group. At my advanced age, I’m reluctant to start all over again. But my experience with the writers’ critique group that Moya organized was indeed fulfilling. I learned a lot about writing, which I especially valued since I had never taken a creative writing course, nor had I previously belonged to any writers’ critique group. Thanks to the members of our group, I learned not to be wordy, not to write run-on sentences (you’re not Faulkner, I was reminded more than once), to avoid cliches, to use exclamation marks judiciously, and much more. And, while the critiques delivered by my fellow writers could be described as tough love, there was never a dearth of love. Every piece of mine was, in the end, judged kindly, anywhere from “good” to “great.” You don’t get that kind of love from an anonymous magazine editor. (Full disclosure: When a piece of mine has been rejected by at least two editors, I do make revisions – and I invariably come to the conclusion that the piece has been enhanced by those revisions. But I still resent the editors.)

Will I be the poorer, going forward, not belonging to a writers’ critique group? No doubt I will be, but one lesson that I learned from our group, that will continue to stand me in good stead, is patience: Don’t be in a big hurry to submit a piece as soon as the last sentence falls into place and you’ve pushed the “SAVE” button. Let the piece sit there and marinate for a few weeks, I was advised. Then you’ll notice a lot of deficiencies that you didn’t notice before, and you’ll be able to make a lot of edits that will improve the piece. A writer with enough experience should be able to function as his own critique group. Along the way I also learned a new word: climacteric. Used as an adjective, climacteric has two meanings (actually three, but we can overlook “menopausal”): The more general meaning is “critical, having far-reaching implications or results;” while a more tangible meaning applies to “fruit that can ripen after being picked.” I’m confident that my past association with the Humor Writers’ Critique Group has proved and will prove to be climacteric in both senses of the word: Critically, I’m sure that, thanks to my colleagues, I have already become a better writer; and, to make the fruit analogy, I have reason to believe that, as time goes by, my self-editing ability will continue to ripen.

Yes, I will continue to write, whether or not I submit any more pieces for publication. I need to write. For one thing, writing manages to fill a void in the life of a retired person like me. In the absence of a job, it satisfies the urge to be productive and creative in some way. And, as many writers over the years have testified, it is a way to self-discovery. Moreover, when I circulate a story or essay among two dozen or so friends and relatives and receive enthusiastic reviews from them, I experience more good vibes than I could have obtained from having had the piece approved by an editor, published, and read by a few hundred strangers. I’ll never hear from any of those strangers, that’s for sure. And I need the good vibes, I need the words of praise from my friends and relatives, even if they’re lying through their teeth. Maybe that’s because I’m insecure about my writing -- which might be expected considering that the ratio of rejections to acceptances for my submissions has been 10:1. So, why do I continue to submit my work to editors, why do I insist on punishing myself, why am I not content with the praise of friends and relatives? Because, I must admit, I also need the validation that comes from the favorable review of an editor. Even if it is followed by rejections from the next ten editors. I’m willing to spend $3 to submit a story to a literary magazine for review by an editor, since there is a chance of publication. On the other hand, I’m not willing to pay $30 or more for submission to a contest, where there’s virtually no chance of publication. There is no point, I decided long ago, in adding injury to insult.

Perhaps I will also, going forward, circulate my stuff to my former comrades in the lately departed and much lamented Humor Writers’ Critique Group. Will we ever see one another again?We parted company at my house after earnestly promising to stay in touch, even to meet in person again in the not-too-distant future, God and covid willing. But who knows if that will ever come to pass? Once Moya decided to walk, and our writers’ group expired, there wasn’t much that could keep the five of us connected. Regardless, the humor, while it lasted, before it was done and gone, was wonderful. And I am grateful for that.