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Calling all writers If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, then there should be no problem establishing a new writers’ group in Senoia; at least, that’s what I thought. Starting a writers’ group seems the next logical step on the road to becoming a published author. Who knew that road would be so arduous? My first attempt establishing the Senoia Writers Group failed miserably. This was due to the choice of location: a quaint little Irish pub. Doing recon in the pub, just to make sure the inside was suitable for us writers, I remembered the second thing writers love to do. The pen may indeed be mightier than the sword, but if you’ve had too many adult beverages, you can’t find your pen. The second attempt appeared to be more feasible than the first: the small quiet downtown library. It seemed like a good choice to hold the twice monthly meetings, there’s a bunch of books and if that’s not inspiring to budding authors what is? Unfortunately while I was walking around scoping out the best tables for our meeting, the library made me remember my fifth grade teacher, Old Mrs. Crabtree. Whenever our class went to the library, she would shush us the entire time, then hit hands with a rolled-up newspaper if we didn’t stop talking. Libraries really haven’t changed much over the years; it’s still a very quiet place. With a bunch of noisy writers in the back corner arguing about who has the best characters, poem or prose, the librarian would have no choice but to shush us right out the door. Besides, when I was in there I saw something that might be able to defeat even our powerful pens. They have a bunch of newspapers that could be rolled up quite easily and used against us writers. Using the written word against a writer — wouldn’t that be a twist? With hope for finding a place to meet all but lost, as the sole member of the new Senoia Writers’ Group, I did what anyone in my position would do. I took a break from writing and met The Wife for coffee. Inspiration reveals itself in the strangest places, in my case it was while sitting in a quaint corner coffee shop. The owners overheard my conversation and offered their place for our meetings. We just had to play nice and share with the bikers. Sharing could pose a problem. Being the youngest of four boys and one girl, the only thing harder than playing nice was sharing — unless you count the Sister’s Barbie dolls, but that’s another story for another time. While we were growing up, Dad would hit us with a rolled-up newspaper when we didn’t share. Guess that’s where old Mrs. Crabtree got the idea. The owners of the coffee shop said that Saturday at 3 p.m. would be a good time for our meetings and that we shouldn’t have a problem. The cyclists usually come in the morning, eat breakfast, and then pedal off to their destinations, only to return the next morning and do it all over again. After seeing those bikers, I got somewhat concerned. They all may seem tall, thin and pasty, but they must be a tough lot. Anybody who walks around wearing a bike helmet, full body Spandex and something that sounds just like tap shoes in the middle of winter has to be. Biking, truly a riveting existence. I think I’ll write about it in my next novel. The young, Spandex-clad cyclists will defeat the antagonist, save the damsels in distress and ride off into the sunset, never to return to the corner coffee shop. Then the writers go in, get the girls and have the entire coffee shop for their meeting. login to post comments | Rick Ryckeley's blog
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