P. C. Hodgell invited me to a writer’s group she had established. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I was moving towards my dream. To be in a writing group with an established fantasy author was more than I could have hoped for.
I made my way to the room above the quirky bookstore on main street. I didn’t have any writing to share but I was anxious to learn. The room looked like a makeshift day care center and arts and crafts space. There was a big table, and I found a seat.
I felt like I had stepped onto the island of misfit toys. Suffice it to say there was an odd array of folks assembled there.
Pat arrived with a bulging satchel, and we all went around and introduced ourselves and what we were working on. I was going to be writer and I was going to write a fantasy. That’s all I knew. For now, I was taking my courses. But I hoped this group might help. I still didn’t know how to write a book.
I learned that this group at least, was more a support and therapy group than an actual writing group for everyone except Pat. She waited patiently for the morbidly obese woman to finally draw her painfully long diatribe to a close. I think it was her only social community.
Then Pat pulled up her satchel and reached in and produced stacks of carbon copied pages. She handed them out…
