"Why are you going to this meeting?"
"Because it encourages me to write."
"You've been in this group for over two years. How many chapters of your novel have you written?"
"That's inconsequential."
"Besides, those people are a bunch of freaks! What are they going to teach you about writing."
"It's more about a community--"
"A community you haven't been a part of for half a year."
"That's why I have to go!"
"You'd never catch me hanging out with a bunch of freaky freaks."
"Enough!"
My brothers are often perplexed by my actions- joining a writer's group, doing a solo road trip from California to Wisconsin, watching Glee-and they respond with nagging disapproval. This time they were attempting to talk me out of going to my monthly writers' group. I had been part of the group since it's inception two years ago, hoping that the pressure of a monthly meeting would motivate me to finally commit my novel to paper. It had not. Plus, after getting swamped at work I had missed several months of meetings. However, I was rededicating myself to writing, and I had determined that I would go. So in spite of my brothers' warnings I set off for Chino.
The meeting used to rotate between different coffee shops in three different cities to accommodate the various group members, but in the months of my absence it had settled in one location, an office complex in Chino. If you've only seen the city of Chino on "The OC" you might have the mistaken impression that it's some kind of ghetto hellhole, which is simply not true. In fact, on my drive through the lovely city I noticed several reputable porn stores, strip clubs and bail bonds. I was admiring a quaint little liquor store when I missed my turn and drove straight up the driveway to the Chino Men's Correctional Facility. A hasty u-turn later and I was once again puttering down Chino's cracked streets and litter-strewn alleys.
When I finally found the meeting I was the last to arrive, looking around I realized our group leader was not in attendance and there were only two people I recognized: a heavy middle-aged woman named Stephanie and an effeminate elderly gentleman named Tim. Stephanie, a divorced mother, was working on a novel in which a mad group of NASA scientists had worked out a way to use satellites to target groups of people they didn't like such as 'Mexicans' and 'Mormons.' Later I found out from our group leader that she also wrote erotica, and to be honest, this is exactly the type of person I imagine as an erotica writer. When I first met Tim, a Chino native, I was sure he was gay, and so I had to restrain my eyebrows from leaping off my forehead when he stated that he had a wife.
At the old group meetings we'd only have three to five people on average, but here sat a dozen people. Since I was late the meeting had already begun and I had missed the introductions. People were casually chatting but two individuals dominated the conversation, Stephanie and a young man in his late twenties named Jeff.
I've often been chided by family or friends for my staring problem. In a restaurant or at a mall I will stare with fascination at groups of people, trying to understand the dynamic and the individual psychologies that create such a dynamic. However, my intrigue can be perceived as downright gawking, like I'm at a human zoo. If that's the case, I was surely treating this meeting as my own personal monkey house.
I watched with confusion as Stephanie and Jeff performed what can only be described as flirting. Jeff, a short doughy braggart, painted himself as an unreformable rogue with outrageous antics right out of 'Animal House' or 'The Hangover.' I listened to him recount the wild weekend in Vegas when he got his tribal tattoo arm band and nearly shaved off his soul patch. To which Stephanie giggled and made awkward and obvious innuendos, letting her short lank hair fall coyly across her face leaving greasy smudges on her glasses. The few moments of conversation I witnessed convinced me that Jeff had no real interest in Stephanie, but simply enjoyed the ego stroking her pandering provided and the confirmation it gave to his bad boy persona. This disturbing tango continued as Jeff shared his writing.
During my tenure in the group, the meetings were typically unstructured with members sharing any writing they chose, be it a chapter in a novel, a poem, or a free form writing exercise. Only twice before had our leader given us writing assignments. The last meeting I attended our leader had assigned each member to write a scene from a strip club. The idea had actually grown out of a joke between myself and another member, in which we challenged each other to come up with the best literary-themed name for a strip club. I can't remember them all, but some of my favorite were: The Coocher in the Rye, The C*$t of Monte Cristo, and A Tale of Two Titties.
Therefore, I was surprised to find out at the current meeting, five months later, that this assignment was still in effect. I listened to Jeff's story, about a real incident that had happened to him and his friends, that included wild happenings like fake IDs and dog fights. To my surprise, the other group members laughed with delight at Jeff's unbelievable antics and told him he should turn his life into a movie. Jeff humbly denied these accolades following with, "Besides, who would believe it?!"
Several more people read disgusting stories; attempts at edginess that overshot the goal and landed with a wet flop into the vulgar yet simultaneously mundane territory. I seriously considered leaving the meeting, but more for decorum's sake, when Tim began to read his piece. An autobiographical recounting of his time, as a young man, when he roomed with a stripper. With much eyebrow waggling and a sly wink he explained that nothing had ever happened between him and the stripper, though he had no explanation for why. I had one. As often happens after a member shares their writing, the others give feedback and the resulting dialogue leads to further stories. Tim told several about his womanizing ways, and nodding his head at Jeff, stated that he believed they might be cut from the same cloth. The look on Jeff's face made me believe he didn't appreciate the comparison, although I certainly did, and I found myself biting the inside of my lower lip to hold back a guffaw.
More stories were read, and with each successive tale my spirit and hopes sank further and my lower lip became rawer. Finally, an elderly white woman named Mae asked to share. I felt my optimism rise. Mae looked to be in her seventies. Her silver white hair was cut short in a pixie cut, and she wore a cotton shirt with a pro-environment message and army green cargo pants. I perceived Mae to be a California archetype, the progressive elderly woman, someone who literally marched in civil rights and feminist rallies; a wise elder who drives a hybrid, shops in thrift stores and intersperses her advice with eastern philosophy. I sat up in expectation, excited for the first time that night to hear what Mae had to share. She too had written a scene from a strip club, and I was interested to hear her take on it. She began thusly:
"Amber was a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and dark eyes. Firm young breasts and an ass like a black girl's."
I can only be grateful that no one's eyes were on me at that moment because my mouth fell open and it was only when I felt the first threats of laughter that I was able to close it.
Finally, as the meeting was drawing to a close, Stephanie spoke up about the assignment for the next month. She had done the strip club scene assignment long ago and wanted something new. I was eternally grateful, for a few seconds. Stephanie then explained some difficulty she was facing with her writing. She was working on a novel, but did not want it to be published as erotica. Apparently she had scrapped the mad scientists with satellites project. In her new novel she wanted to include sex scenes, but her usual gratuitous manner of writing would get it qualified as erotica. She wanted help writing a sex scene in a less graphic way. She suggested the next assignment be for everyone to write a sex scene. Jeff asked in a suggestive tone if they had to use euphemisms or if they could go hardcore. Snorting and chortling, Stephanie said he could do whatever he wanted and she would likewise bring in some samples of her erotica for comparison, though she warned some of it was based on true life encounters. This began what felt like a never-ending orgy of sharing from the members about sexual encounters.
Swallowing my bile, I looked around the room at the dozen of writers surrounding me. I opened my mouth to interrupt the conversation, to question the assignment, and the group itself. I wanted to ask if all of them were truly comfortable writing pornography. However, it was at this point I realized I had been out of the group too long. The small and struggling group of writers I had joined was gone, none of the original four remained. This new group was large, rambunctious, and thriving. The quiet coffeehouse hopefuls had been replaced by the baudy red light writers' group. With a silent curse at my brothers for always being right, I left the group.
