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I am such a cynical cow.
I went to a meeting of very nice women last night. They were all intelligent, interesting, funny, very welcoming to the new guy. One of the "assignments" from the previous meeting was to bring something we had handmade. I brought some of the drawstring bags I'd made. What makes them special to me was that they are made from fabric one Buffista had sent, after clearing out another Buffista's overstock of quilting materials. It feels very sisterly--all the bags I've made with the fabrics I so "inherited" have good energy.
I digress. Two people brought poems they'd written. One brought two, and read them with a breathless trembling voice, the first time she'd ever shared anything she'd written. They were actually quite good. The other woman read her poem, too. And read it, and read it, for what felt like an hour or two. The saga of Beowulf, if Beowulf had been a small southern girl inordinately fond of her grandparents' farm on a long-ago summer's visit. Oy.
I have such an aversion to "grit lit." I can't stand the genre known as "southern writers." Well, there's Eudora, she's her own category and I love her deeply. Otherwise? No, just no. Can't stand the longwinded folksy ramble. The point. I assume you have one. Get there, or at least show me something interesting along the way, please! There's a whole litany of well-respected writers who fit in this category, as well as some popular hacks. I know I grew up here and this mode of storytelling is supposed to be familiar and dear to me, but huh-uh. Makes my teeth itch.
I am so grateful to my writers group, all of whom but me hail from elsewhere. There's a meeting tomorrow afternoon. I'll have to go now just to get the rest of the sugar out of my bloodstream.
I'm a bad, bad, uncharitable woman.
I went to a meeting of very nice women last night. They were all intelligent, interesting, funny, very welcoming to the new guy. One of the "assignments" from the previous meeting was to bring something we had handmade. I brought some of the drawstring bags I'd made. What makes them special to me was that they are made from fabric one Buffista had sent, after clearing out another Buffista's overstock of quilting materials. It feels very sisterly--all the bags I've made with the fabrics I so "inherited" have good energy.
I digress. Two people brought poems they'd written. One brought two, and read them with a breathless trembling voice, the first time she'd ever shared anything she'd written. They were actually quite good. The other woman read her poem, too. And read it, and read it, for what felt like an hour or two. The saga of Beowulf, if Beowulf had been a small southern girl inordinately fond of her grandparents' farm on a long-ago summer's visit. Oy.
I have such an aversion to "grit lit." I can't stand the genre known as "southern writers." Well, there's Eudora, she's her own category and I love her deeply. Otherwise? No, just no. Can't stand the longwinded folksy ramble. The point. I assume you have one. Get there, or at least show me something interesting along the way, please! There's a whole litany of well-respected writers who fit in this category, as well as some popular hacks. I know I grew up here and this mode of storytelling is supposed to be familiar and dear to me, but huh-uh. Makes my teeth itch.
I am so grateful to my writers group, all of whom but me hail from elsewhere. There's a meeting tomorrow afternoon. I'll have to go now just to get the rest of the sugar out of my bloodstream.
I'm a bad, bad, uncharitable woman.