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By Rosemary McKinley

I am still not sure why this happened, but it did. I signed up for a writing class at our local library. It seemed like a good place to start since I had moved from another area and my experience with that long-standing group, called Mavericks, was inspiring. We did have a paid coordinator who had a wonderful way of having the writer rethink his own lines, when it was pointed out. He believed in self-editing.

I brought one of my stories and met about nine or 10 other writers, older than me. We each read our pieces and enjoyed their memories of an earlier time in their lives.

We met for about six weeks and then took a break. One of the women was around my age and we got to know one another. We became good writing friends and still are.

Little by little, the group winnowed down to fewer and fewer people. Losing interest?

I kept writing snippets of my life growing up in a small town, not unlike the one here in Southold, where I currently live.

After about a year, there were only three of us. The one male, whose writing had us laughing out loud, said that he was leaving the area and moving in with his son. He wouldn’t be back. So, Carol and I said we would continue because we were still writing.

The next six-week cycle seemed destined to end for the group. There were only two of us. We did meet but since this group was planned by the library, it couldn’t continue with only two people.

The librarian placed it in the newsletter hoping more people would attend. One of the women came in to ask if we could plan these meetings at night. We complied, but she never showed up. And since we are retired, we didn’t really want to meet at night.

We even planned a poetry reading during the month of April, so we could read our work to an audience. We set up the date with the library and had refreshments. The first year, the two of us showed!

In the meantime, we met sporadically and kept writing. The following April we planned another poetry reading to commemorate Poetry Month. This time three people attended in addition to us. One woman was eager to read her poetry and then promptly got up and left. The other two, a man and a woman, were ready with poems they had written about lost loves. They were eyeing each other the whole time. They promptly read their work and left, together!

We looked at each other and smiled. Not what we thought a poetry reading was for.

Then, our writers’ group was abandoned and caput.

About a year later, I was walking into the local supermarket, when a woman approached me. She asked me if I was in the library writing group. I said, “Yes.”

“I would like you to go to the director and ask to start another group with a paid facilitator. That person would steer the group and give some instruction.”

I was a little taken aback. When I recovered my composure, I said, "We don’t need a facilitator, we have each other. We read our work and critique each other that way.”

She sighed and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to have a paid facilitator?

I said, “Not really.”

So, we decided to forget the library route altogether and meet in our homes.

That’s what we did for a few months when the woman who was so dogged about having a writing class said, “I am dropping out, I don’t want to do this anymore!”

We were flabbergasted. She did drop out, but we continued meeting for a while.

Some of our group didn’t live here full time and others had other commitments.

Another year, I planned to give a writing class through the town classes. It was set up for 7 p.m. About three of us were waiting at the door and it was locked and dark. The town forgot us.

After that, I asked to have an afternoon class. That worked for a while. Then, that fizzled out. Now we just send each other our work and ask for a critique. We do meet, but only a few times a year.

I remember talking to another local writer about this and she said that groups didn’t work for her, but a trusted fellow author did.

So, I suppose you should use whatever works for you!

— Rosemary McKinley

Rosemary McKinley is an eclectic author who has had short stories, articles and poetry published. Her three books center on the glorious East End of Long Island, New York.