2:11 Writers Anonymous

I left work early to make this appointment on time. I took a quick bus ride and a dash through the arts and craft fair on the crammed, cobbled street of Nachlat Binyamin, squeezing pass those making their end of day purchases of hand-made candle sticks and key holders. I gazed up, above the chaos, and noticed a white signpost bobbing in the air, with the words 'writing' scrawled across with a thick black market pen. That was my destination.

The group of bodies surrounding the signpost appeared misplaced and innocent, yet somewhat suspicious. My initial thought was I don't think this is quite for me ... maybe I shall turn around whilst I still have a chance. The man holding the post was no younger than late sixties, short curls of white hair carpeting the sides of his balding head and square glasses perched at the end of his nose. His casual dress and posture showed signs of an experienced Woodstock attendee. He noticed my gaze and said with a gentle American accent:

"Are you one of us?"
[Hmm, should I lie and make a quick getaway??]
"Um (pause), yep I am."

Most of the group comprised of ladies with short grey locks, those with plenty of time for tea. There was also a younger woman with a pink scarf around her hair and an elderly man, , who wore a bright grin. He took his hand out, so I responded, cautiously taking mine out and shook his hand.

I positioned myself at the edge, distancing myself from the group dynamic, and waited for the late attendees to arrive. I spent this time watching a man dancing in a yellow tutu and entertaining an audience of mobile phone cameramen. I was amazed by the way he moved his feathered fingers and twirled his bony body to the beat of the background techno music.

I was jogged out my daze by Mr Signpost, who beckoned for us to follow him to his apartment. I turned to a few extra faces and was somewhat relieved to see that my decade was now more proportionately represented. We soldiered through the crowds, through Carmel Market and reached his home, which was situated above the bustle of the sellers and fruit stalls. The manic below seemed a world away. The screams of the bidders, the smell of rotten vegetables and the claustrophobic air was all left behind as the front door closed, as I embarked on my first writing group meeting.

We entered a room, where a circle of chairs had been carefully placed. We all took a seat and glared at each other with nervous grins. Mr Signpost came to the middle of the circle and introduced himself. He spoke of the group’s purpose and proceeded to list his resume of publications, awards, teaching and writing experience of a thousand years. I noticed around the number of bookcases, filled with dictionaries of all sorts, old literature and poetry. Above, I gazed at the photos of people in his life. They all appeared so normal.

Refocusing on the dialect, the matter at hand, as his speech developed and as others responded, I increasingly sank into my chair, timid to make eye contact with Mr Signpost. I dared not say a word. He asked the group what type of writers we were and how could we categorize our writing. I have never defined my writing and wasn’t sure if I could. Or should I say, this though never crossed my mind. What could I categorize myself as, writer or wanna-be? Where did I fit in?
Mr Signpost: "So ladies and gentlemen, please raise a hand if you are an advanced writer."
I kept mine firmly on my lap. Most of the tea ladies shot theirs up. I then raised my right arm to ‘novice’.

Mr Signpost: "And, who are the fictional writers?"
[Hmm, I don’t think so]. Mine went up on prose [I suppose, well, except the financial and magazine writing].

The attendees were poets, fiction, prose, novice and advanced writers. I was comforted with the grinning novices around me.

Following our dividing, it was Q&A time. The excitement mounts. The tea ladies were opinionated, whilst the minority group sat in silence. We observed the outspoken women, bickering over every item on the agenda: time to gather, 4 or 5 pm; time to talk about our piece, 10 minutes for 15; whether biscuits are to be provided or brought by ourselves and whether they ought to be kosher. The biscuit debate went on for far too long, until one tea lady brought the bicker it to a halt, "we are here to write, not to bloody eat biscuits”. The novices cheered amongst themselves.

My conclusion for the first attendance was uncertainty. When I began to write on-line, I dived in, naïve of its purpose, direction or even how people would perceive it. Yet, I have come to realise my passion to put pen to paper, finger to key, and to exploit this avenue of communicating the unspoken. This month I undertook several avenues to develop this love. I now write for a digital magazine about the nightlife in Tel Aviv for the US; and, secondly, this group. It was an entertaining experience; we’ll see how it goes.