(Illustration by Stripes Okinawa)
“I’m not dropping you off here!” my husband Francis proclaimed from the driver’s seat of our minivan, rolling slowly by an aging bungalow with crumbling front steps and a rusty metal pipe handrail. The peeling front door led to an enclosed porch piled with junk and overgrown plants.
“But this is the right address, Honey. Stop so I can get out, or I’ll be late for my first meeting!” I ordered. I’d found the Newport Round Table Writer’s Group online, after our Navy family moved to Rhode Island. I’d been self-syndicating my weekly humor columns for about three years, and heard that writer’s groups can really help authors wanting to write books, so I submitted a request to join and was accepted.
Francis reluctantly parked the van at the curb, and I stepped out. “I’m waiting here until I see who comes to the door,” he said skeptically. I ascended the steep, icy concrete steps and knocked. Soon, a woman with long, red hair, ensconced in dark fabrics over a long black skirt, opened the door. I wondered if she was a Wiccan.
“Are you Lisa?” she inquired.
“Melinda, right?” I replied, mirroring her smile. I waved off Francis, who was peering intently through the windshield, and stepped inside.
Melinda led me through the cluttered porch to a low-lit sitting room, where group members sat in an imperfect circle on mismatched dining room chairs and upholstered furniture. Dusty, burgundy draperies hung heavily over the windows. Old lamps sat on various antique side tables, casting an amber glow on the cramped room. Everything was draped with fabric, just like Melinda. Pieces of fringed burgundy jacquard, damask and brocade hung over armrests, hassocks, seat cushions and lampshades.
The room felt heavy, as if the floor might collapse under us.
Melinda introduced me to the others, about seven in all, who were chatting familiarly with each other. I was offered the last free chair — an antique with a wobbly leg and a lumpy embroidered seat affixed with upholstery tacks.
Despite the cheap horror film set before me, I firmly believed that NRT Writer’s Group was legit. It had been active for almost 10 years, and many of its members were already published authors. Melinda had sent me the extensive rules for each eight-week session. Writers signed up for reading slots each session, and agreed to give thoughtful critiques to others. NRT strictly adhered to “glass box critiquing” rules, which required authors to read 2,000-word excerpts aloud, then stay silent while others offered two-minute critiques. On that first night while Kevin, a friendly engineer with thick white hair and too many political opinions, read an excerpt from his novel, I secretly surveyed the other writers, scribbling notes in my binder. Over the next four years of NRT sessions in the crowded house on Bedlow Avenue, I also came to know: Matt, Melinda’s husband, a graphic novel writer who hated excess commas; Babsi, a quirky designer, who was writing an exhaustive memoir; and her husband, Vlad, who wrote a cringe-worthy description of his shower routine. Nina, who wrote but refused to publish three entertaining novels, became my good friend. Eliza’s gilt-edged vanity novel featured a younger, prettier version of herself. In keeping with her Wiccan style, Melinda penned a popular ghost hunting book.
During my years in NRT, I read my columns about military and family life, read my weekly column pitch to Stars and Stripes and read the manuscript that would become my book. Sure, there were tense moments when tempers were lost, tears were shed and writers stormed out. And after Melinda and Matt announced they were selling the house and moving to Europe, NRT officially disbanded.
Despite it all, I miss that ragtag, sometimes annoyingly self-indulgent group of writers, and those nights in the dusky, dusty house on Bedlow.
I learned that it’s possible to accomplish your dreams when you have a tribe willing to listen, critique and occasionally tell you that, yes, your comma placement really is terrible. Find your people, pull up a wobbly chair and keep showing up — because sometimes the strangest places are where you’ll discover you’re right where you belong.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
