Monday, December 26, 2011

Where The Old Folks Write

Since moving back to Michigan, I've been scouring the internets trying to find a local writing group.  No luck thus far.  And while I've yet to visit a library to inquire what they might be keeping secret, I'm becoming more resigned to the fact I used to write in a very unique place.

South Florida is home to dozens of writer's groups, of all different sizes, genres and colors. I tried out a few  but always stayed loyal to my main group.  This was an eclectic collection from all different walks of life, all writing about something different while offering great critiques that have made me better over the years.

However, as I reflect on my time down there, one thing is so blatantly obvious it almost need not be stated.  I will state it nonetheless since many of you may not be aware of this fact.

Florida is home to many, many old folks.  Now I'm not talking rocking-on-a-porch-with-a-blanket-while-your-teeth-fall-out old.  I'm talking about retired folks.  Folks without jobs and lots of time to write and way too much retirement money to spend on writing conferences, self-publishing and the like.

People up here work all day. (At least those with jobs.)  Retirees in Florida have all the time in the world to devote to their craft/hobby/passion.  Where ever you look down there you can slip into a group, get a half-way decent critique and better yourself.  Up here, I'm not so sure.

I've found one group that meets regularly near the University of Michigan.  I'll give it a try, but I'm likely to find a bunch of young know-it-alls, too pumped full of their professors' BS to give serious critique.  Then again, that might be a refreshing change.

After all, I can only read so many memoirs no one else will ever see.

So bring on the young.  And thanks to the old.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Friday, December 2, 2011

Listen To The Snow

It's been a couple of weeks.  I'm back in Michigan and the feeling I never left is starting to creep in.  It's been a struggle.  I miss my friends.  Miss the Sun.  Miss the beach, even though I rarely went to the beach.  Eleven years feels like they're being washed away by the blinding snow.  Six inches.  I had to buy a shovel.  And boots.  My poor car doesn't know what happened.

Writing?  Please.  I can't find all the boxes.  And when I find a box I can't find what should be in it.  We have a six month lease.  Why bother unpacking?  Why bother staying?

Because I'm not working as much.  But being paid as much.  My boy needs me, and is getting more of me than before.  That's why.

Sometimes things work out when they never did.  This makes me nervous.  This past year has been one for the records.  Maybe it's a turning point.  Could the future really be as bright?  I hope so.  We're barely a year away from the end of the Mayan calendar.  I'm hoping they just ran out of ink.