Writers group meeting at the bar

We had, in my opinion, our first successful writers' group meeting last night.  Mostly because it was more than just shuffling our feet and trying to figure out what we should be doing.  The goal we'd set for ourselves this week was to write and bring in 3-5 pages.  There had been a couple of half-hearted attempts, but I was the only one who actually had 3.5 pages with me (the beginning of The Underground Lecturehall).  Even so, we were able to discuss a lot about styles and what we do to get ideas and how we go about writing something.  My style was described as Orwellian.  And while I'm not sure it's entirely accurate, it's an awesome compliment to receive.

The most amazing compliment though, was that they were interested and wanted to read more.  That's something that in my memory has never happened before.  It seems like all my life I've had to beg and plead with friends and family to read what I've written.  Even when they actually do read it, feedback always comes in the form of, "Well, that's... um... a very well-written story.  You should keep it up."  In other words, it's clear that although they thought it was probably good work, they themselves either didn't like it or just plain didn't get it.  Thus discouraged, I return to my typewriter to try again.

Why have I kept it up, in spite of an overwhelming lack of interest?  The truth is that in the end, the only person I really write for is myself.  It wouldn't bother me even if the rest of the world declares that I am to writing what Vogons are to poetry.  Okay, maybe a little.  But the thought would never even cross my mind to actually stop writing.  I'd go crazy after more than a couple of months without some kind of creative outlet.  The only thing that would probably happen is that I would just stop showing my stuff to other people.

But these people actually liked it enough that they wanted to read more?  I didn't know what to say.  I can't wait to read what they bring in next time.