INSPIRIATION TO MOTTO

Wow! What a great looking group. Published, not published, hopeful, proud, wary?

Those were my thoughts and questions as I entered the Chinese restaurant for my first meeting with PAWS. No, it was not an animal rights group or even specifically for people who love animals. Although some do both, I later learned. It stands for Proud Authors and Writers Society, located in a town nearby where I live. Having never met anyone seated at the table, I had no idea which was what or who was whom.

I heard about PAWS from my host, an acquaintance we will call Opal. Since this is a true story, more or less, each group member will be given an exceptional but fictitious name. At one time or another, Opal mentioned belonging to a group of writers. As a budding writer herself, she was in the process of compiling data for a book regarding local cemeteries and those buried within.

Long ago, and far, far away, I had dabbled at writing poetry and short stories. Recently, however, I had begun to jot down thoughts here and there. A suggestion I made to myself was, “This may well be the perfect opportunity to find assistance to go in such a direction.” Little did I know what impact these people would have upon me, and my future or how inspiration can be found when it is sought.

After introductions, orders were placed, drinks were offered, and the meeting took a more official turn. Someone had declared earlier that they were not a formal organization and therefore had no president or secretary, no forms to complete, or dues to pay. One of the women, Charlotte, started passing around copies of her latest story, others did the same. Not everyone had an offering, but there were five or six papers to read before the next monthly meeting.

Now, before getting too deep into this story, I’d like to ask you a question. Hopefully, I will not bore you with technical terms of a literary nature.

Have you ever thought about the difference between an author and a writer--in the world of fiction, I mean? Yes? No? I hadn’t until realizing I meet both types at this meeting. Having a curious mind and the desire to be prepared, I usually try to find the definition of a word or words. It can help determine if I’m even in the ballpark of understanding its meaning and/or background. It seemed a good idea to be “in the know” before the meeting, and I like knowing things.

What I found was, surprisingly, of no consequence, as you will see. Being logical, I started with the word writer. Merriam Webster’s (M.W.) definition was: One that writes. Well, duh. Moving on. Cambridge said: it is a person who writes books or articles to be published. And, another doozy, Wikipedia cited: A person who uses written words.

Not exactly what I expected, but then again, I’m not sure what I expected.

Let’s move on to the term: author. This time M.W. had two general offerings: 1. the writer of a literary work (such as a book…), and 2. one that originates or creates something. Next, according to Cambridge: the writer of a book, article, play, or… This was much the same as M.W for me. And, Wikipedia: an author is the creator or originator of any written work such as a book or play, and is also considered a writer.

See what I mean? Totally useless with no firm decision. Further research was required. The internet showed some to believe (paraphrasing and using a snooty accent to show pomposity—no offense intended), “…you cannot be an author unless you are published. Otherwise, you are only a writer.” So there! Accordingly, the name given the group, PAWS, was accurate to include authors and writers.

Now back to the story. Waiting for the meals to arrive and be served, Minerva started a conversation with me.

“We are so glad to have you. How do you know Opal?” Not the opening question I had expected from my new literary colleagues. My bad, the misery of all disappoint is expectations, which may or may not be realistic.

I gave a short answer to her question and asked one of my own to induce a more erudite (anyone can be a snob) conversation, “…and tell me about your writing, Minerva. Do you have something in the works?” I wasn’t really sure how to ask the question. To be honest, I was somewhat intimidated and self-conscious, neither of which is my norm.

“How sweet of you to ask. I’ve published several novels and have started another series. Here’s my card with my website to check out my books. Please feel free to ask any questions about my books or the group.”

Ok, so, she’s an author since she had several published novels. We sat eating and chatting for several minutes before she got up and moved around the table to converse with another member. On the other side of me was Claude, an ex-cop, who was kind enough to ask, “Are you a writer or just here for a visit or both.”

“To be honest, I don’t really know. I used to write years ago. Recently I’ve found myself scribbling things randomly and wondered if your group gave suggestions.”

“We are glad to have you. I’ve been learning for the past two years and not published yet. But we can’t do anything without knowing your work. Next month, bring something to share. We will be gently, but critical if you want. If not, we’ll just enjoy whatever you have to share.”

Claude is not published; he must be a writer. I hope I’m getting the hang of it. The next meeting date was set, goodbyes were said, and we all went our separate ways.

Not much was said by Opal on the drive home. When I mentioned taking my work to the next meeting, all she said was, “Everyone in PAWS will be kind and just as generous.” Our small town was only a thirty-minute drive from the meeting, and we spoke about other things after her terse reply.

“Hope we can go together next time, I’ll drive if you’d like, Opal.”

“Thanks, we can take turns. It’s nice to have the company. I’ll call in a few days.”

Opal and I met for coffee several times before the next meeting. She never asked about my writing

or if I still planned to take a sample.

“You were noticeably quiet during the PAWS meeting, was there something wrong? It's not like you,” I asked at one of our coffee clutches.

“Nothing was wrong. I just get so fed up with Geraldine. She is bossy and thinks she knows everything. After attending to those meetings for over two years, I could use some help with writing the stories for my book. I have to admit I’m not good at the kind of description I need for famous people. And we have a lot of them buried in our local cemeteries. No one will volunteer.”

I didn’t know what to say since I didn’t know any of the members and didn’t know Opal much better. As you can tell, her words are short and to the point, and sometimes not so sweet.

“I’m planning on taking several of my older stories with me to the next meeting. If you like how I write, I’d be happy to help.” There was no response to my offer.

The next meeting went much as the first. Opal was quiet and didn’t bring anything to share. “Thanks for bringing your stories. We read each other’s stuff and return them at the next meeting,” Earl said. “We can mark em’ up sometimes, but we can be pretty complimentary too. It just depends.”

Earl has self-published over 125 books, most of which are available on Amazon with a few on sale through Goodreads. So, is he an author or a writer? I’m going with an author. Self-publishing is “published.”

Alice was forthcoming with the names of her two books and her publisher.

“Just in case you should want to write a book.”

“Write a book?” I almost shrieked. “I haven’t written a cohesive sentence in years. Where would I start?”

“Some recommend just to sit down and start putting words on paper. You have to begin somewhere, and that’s as good as any place,” Alice offered.

The others all chimed in with their opinions, except Opal. There were good suggestions, some I wouldn’t use, and others were iffy. Alice, however, said something that caught my attention.

“Have you ever asked yourself a question you couldn’t answer? For your first attempt, I would start there. You never know where it might take you.”

Opal did not attend the next meeting, and we only had about half the members that night. I was glad, in a way, Opal wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure what kind of reception my work would receive. If it was all negative, I didn’t want to discuss it on the ride home. I was anxious, I guess, and it felt like being in class again, waiting to get a red-inked paper returned. Opal had been right, though. If the comments weren’t complimentary, they were also constructive and informative.

It has been easy for me to accept I’m not perfect. That happens when you make as many mistakes as I have over the years. Since it was only my beginning attempts, criticism was expected. As it happened, there were more compliments in the mix, which encouraged me to continue my efforts.

Over the next few months, Opal and I attended several more meetings together. First, she missed one or two, then she would attend a few. After about a year, she told me, “No one has offered to help me after all this time. I’m done. You can keep going, but just count me out.” I never mentioned my own offer and wondered if it might be just a pretext to leave the group.

I continued to attend, taking samples here and there. Different members would give out a tidbit of wisdom here and there. Others offered encouragement about how, when, and even where to write.

I was surprised at myself. I found the idea of writing a book intriguing, and I kept asking “the question” as Alice had said. It still took several attempts, even after finding the right question. But finally, the answers began to flow. No one said it would ever be easy.

Alice and I became friends over the next year. When we were together outside the group, we talked about writing, our favorite books, and what it would be like to be a famous author. Of course, we had a lot of other things in common, too many to name. Alice became my mentor, reading, suggesting, offering different paths, only tweaking, never negative. Well, unless I needed a good kick in the pants, so to speak.

The group members were helpful as well reading some of the chapters, letting me know they wanted more. Or, just not returning the copy, indicating a waning interest. I tried hard not to take offense. One thing I learned: a writer has to be open. No. More than one thing. You cannot be thin-skinned. Not everyone is going to like a writer's style, story, or words. Not even mine.

It has now been about a year since I started my novel. It took a little over six months to get it on paper with another six months of editing. It was unbelievable, I had actually written a book. Here, it needs to be mentioned what a supportive husband I have. The manuscript is now in the “query” stage. For those who are not “writers wanting to be authors,” it means I’ve put my novel out into the world, waiting to be discovered. This is an agonizing, debilitating, and at times, humiliating part of the process.

If you should be interested in becoming a writer, plan on thickening-up your skin. It is going to take a beating. Stephen King said, “By the time I was fourteen, the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it.” Please, please, don’t let it happen to me. I’m long, long past fourteen.

As part of my dedication, I plan to thank the member of our writing group. This novel could not and would not exist without them. Each had a unique part to play, and Alice, in particular, gave me the courage, the inspiration to start. As an F.Y.I., I have already sent a separate note to Opal since we are no longer acquainted. But I will always appreciate her taking me to PAWS.

Inspiration can be offered and accepted in many delightful forms. From inspiration to Motto:

IF IT WAS EASY, ANYONE COULD DO IT!