I was in a writing group

I was in a writing group. It was held in a seminar room at the uni but outsiders were welcome to attend. One of the English lecturers oversaw proceedings, donating an hour of his time each week. Sometimes, we'd improvise on a given topic, scrawling madly for half of the session. (No-one owned laptops then!) Most times, we'd bring along works in progress. Prose or poetry, never plays. We'd go around the circle, taking turns to read our compositions, then others would have the opportunity to comment. Finally, the lecturer would offer brief, constructive criticism and suggest relevant authors/poets we might wanna investigate.

The group was very liberal and very supportive. There was a young gal with a cool haircut and an endearing lisp who was just coming out and clearly appreciated the reassurance she received. There was a young guy who resembled Mallory's artist boyfriend Nick from "Family Ties" (another reference that'll date me), and who, though not a student, was all about things poetic. There were worldly, mature-age arts majors, and youthful engineers, scientists and economists who also happened to be lexically inclined.

I remember writing an impromptu piece about a borrowed BMX bike left outdoors to rust as a symbol of the corroding of a neglected friendship. I recall taking along a strange free-verse poem about how predestination meant the third of the heavenly host who fell were blameless pawns. (Pretentious or WHAT?) Scapegoat Lucifer's prison was an endless beach. "How do angels procreate?" asked the lecturer, enigmatically. "Inside the minds of humans," I replied. He seemed satisfied with that. Or perhaps he just realised I was beyond help :-)

One week, a woman joined us and monopolised the 60 min. reading a sci-fi romance. When she didn't return the following week, there was bitching about the fact that on top of denying anyone else the chance to read at the previous meeting, she obviously had zero interest in receiving our feedback on her speculative sauce. I didn't bitch. I knew the lady in question from the gaming society and we'd compare genre finds when our aisles intersected in the library. She was the only person in my early-20s circle who was already married.

Towards the end of the academic year, the lecturer in charge ran a poetry competition, with the winner to be announced at a formal dinner for writing groupsters at a local club. I dashed off a short entry in which a dude reflected on life through a bus window that was below average at best. On the night, a Highly Commended nod went to a quiet, diligent regular. We didn't get to hear her poem but were told it involved a violin. I imagined - not in a mean way - that the subject might be a quiet, diligent violinist.

The victor hadn't attended a single w/g session. He wrote about an unavoidable fight in a pub car park. It was excellent! The kind of offbeat-yet-believable work Triple J (that's an Aussie radio station, international guests) might have set to a soundscape and hammered for a fortnight. I'd borrowed Mum's trusty Ford Laser for the function and was able to give a few folks lifts home, including the unfamiliar bloke who'd won. When I saw where he lived, I realised he may well have known about unavoidable fights in pub car parks!

There was an unspoken rule that you took part in the writing group for two semesters, then "graduated" to make space at the table for the next band of aspiring bards, so there's nothing further to add...except that, in hindsight, the experience taught a naive lad as much about people as it did word choice or sentence structure.