During one of my earlier flirtations with writing, before I finally ran out of excuses and began taking it seriously, I attended a meeting of my local writers’ group. It was held in our small town library, after hours, and the place was empty, quiet and dim. Five or six people turned up. I was one of two newbies. The others were regulars, and meetings were held once a month. I had little idea of what to expect.
What happened was that the regulars read their work aloud, and everyone agreed it was very good. Once we had run out of work to read, the conversation ran dry. About an hour in, the meeting closed with friendly anticipations of meeting again in a month’s time. I did not go back. They were lovely people, but I wasn’t sure of the point.
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