| Monday, November 27, 2000 |
 | Writing groups are the ultimate evocation of the triumph of hope over experience. Every time, one expects them to be full of edgy, brilliant people, of about your age, with a slight gender imbalance favouring your own proclivities. Although other people are more than happy to handle the logistics, you are quickly made the warrior-monarch of the group, for your smouldering good looks as much as for your undeniable and peer-recognised talent.
In fact, they have always been set up by a middle-aged woman, usually called Sally. They are filled with people for whom this is a kooky alternative to local history at the local college of further learning.
Worst of all, the Sallys of this world never know a fucking thing about writing. This does not necessarily mean that nothing is any good. It means that there is no critical vocabulary and no will to make things better. It just turns into a grotesque circle jerk of middle-aged, middle-class mediocrity. Like Marco Negri playing for Rangers reserves - there's no pressure to improve, so why bother?
And off I go again this evening, to be disappointed. I should just stick to Lonely Hearts. The hit rate is probably comparable.
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