Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) (42 page)

There were several possibilities to choose from. I didn’t want to attend a college-type class. I felt that would shut me down creatively in an instant. Instead, I was looking for something less traditional.

As I sorted through my options, I came across a class that sounded perfect. It described being a writer as a lifestyle rather than as a profession. It even had a little list of questions to answer to determine if one had the right mindset to be a writer. I thought that was clever. I answered each of the questions. I didn’t expect to have them match exactly, but they did. According to their quiz, I was a writer through and through. I laughed a little at the idea that a list of questions could really define that.

As I was signing up for the class, my computer chimed, letting me know that I had a new comment on my blog. I opened the blog back up and scanned the screen. I was sure it would be from Blue.

Dearest SWF,

It is astounding the way you have blossomed through your writing. Just from the blog posts I’ve read, I can tell that you have a knack for creativity. I’m glad that you’ve made this big decision. I think once you start truly living your passion you will experience a big change in your life. Maybe it won’t be the only one. Let yourself open wide—as your name indicates—and welcome the world of creativity. You are the perfect person to be carving beauty from your thoughts.

Admiring you as always,

Blue

I read over the note a few times. I couldn’t help it. I always imagined Blue speaking directly to me, rather than just words floating on a computer screen. He had to be sitting in a thick leather chair, with a smoking jacket on. Or maybe he was perusing my blog between lifesaving surgeries. Or maybe he was just down the block sitting in his own apartment, hanging on my words the same way I hung on to his.

I was thrilled by his message. It was the confirmation that I needed that I was making the right decision. If Max thought I was a writer, a little online quiz thought I was a writer, and Blue thought I was a writer, then a writer I would be. The only question I had left to answer was, what did I want to write about?

As soon as I considered it, my mind filled with all of the possibilities. I could write articles or I could write fiction. I could write about romance or I could write about the difficulties I had faced in my own life. I could write about Max and my conflicting emotions about a relationship with him. I could write about Blue, a secret admirer that I was becoming dependent on.

Really, the options were endless, but they all came down to putting some words on paper. I hoped that the class I would attend would narrow down my choices and help me to focus in on a topic. No matter what happened, I was certain that it would be yet another adventure—and another item I could tick off my bucket list.

Single Wide Female: The Bucket List

#12 Join a Writing Group

By

Lillianna Blake

Copyright © 2015 Lillianna Blake

Cover design by
Beetiful Book Covers

All rights reserved.

LilliannaBlake.com

Chapter 1

I stared at the blank screen in front of me. It seemed to me that ever since I’d decided that I wanted to try my hand at an actual writing career, I couldn’t have a single creative thought. The more I tried to think of something to write, the less I could come up with that sounded even remotely interesting.

I had, however, cleaned out the inside of every one of my kitchen cabinets. I’d organized my books by date of publishing and personal preference. My floors were spotless. I’d even scrubbed the windows. Everything that could be done,
other
than writing, had been done.

Yet again, I found myself sitting in front of my computer, waiting for the creative juices to flow. It had never been a problem for me in the past. Writing was my favorite way to express myself. I’d been blogging since I began working on my bucket list. So why was it that now I couldn’t find a single word to write?

I had heard of writer’s block, but this was more like writer’s amnesia. I would type out a sentence and then stare at it. Within a few minutes, I would rewrite it four or five times. Then I would think that it wasn’t written correctly. This led me straight to the Internet for a grammar lesson.

Ten happy kitten videos later, and I still only had one sentence written on my screen. I had promised myself that today would be different. Today, I would actually make some progress on what I was writing—but so far, it wasn’t turning out that way.

Luckily, the next item on my bucket list was joining the writing group that I’d signed up for. The group promised to be a place to get advice and constructive criticism. It met that evening, and I was looking forward to getting some experienced eyes on my writing.

I’d been dabbling with a novel. The characters were so real and alive to me that they could have walked right in the door of my apartment. I had a storyline that I liked, but transitioning from storyline to actual story was proving to be a stumbling block for me. I wasn’t sure that I was ever going to get to a point of being able to achieve what I wanted with it—at least, not within this century.

I was really hoping that the group I was planning on attending would be able to offer some tips and suggestions. I printed out the few pages I’d written just in case anyone would be willing to read them. I was feeling very insecure about actually sharing my writing with others. Since everyone in the group was a writer, I hoped that they would understand that fear.

It was my day off from Fluff and Stuff so I had nothing to distract me. I just couldn’t sit still. The desire was there, but the follow-through was gone. I chalked it up to a little bit of anxiety about meeting new people at the group.

I decided to try writing my current thoughts, instead of focusing so much on the novel. I logged on to my blog and began typing up a new post. I let my readers know that I would be attending my first writing group that night. Somewhere in my tirade about writer’s block and my insecurity about meeting new people, I threw in the name of the cafe where we’d be meeting. I was usually very careful about not revealing any identifying information. When I read the blog over I noticed it, but I’d already published it. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I only had a handful of readers and I doubted any were interested in me that much.

Once the blog was up, I went to my bedroom to change for the meeting. I wanted to look like a writer. After a few minutes of pulling clothes out of my closet and then tossing them into a rejection pile on my bed, I realized that I had no idea how writers dressed. I decided to do a little Internet research to find out.

When I sat back down at my computer, I noticed an alert showing that I’d gotten a new comment on my blog. I was excited to see it, as I was hoping it would be from Blue. He and I had begun quite an exchange lately about my writing skills. I clicked on the link and the comment appeared.

SWF,

You don’t need other writers to tell you that you can write. You write, so you’re a writer. Good luck anyway. I hope you have a great time. Try not to knock anybody out.

Blue

I had to laugh at his final words. I had been pretty honest about my clumsy behavior on my blog. I just couldn’t seem to go anywhere without knocking into something or falling on my rear end. It was becoming a bit of a joke with my readers.

I tended to blame it on my size, but really it had nothing to do with that. It was about my lack of coordination. I had a hard time paying attention to what was around me as my mind was always going pretty fast. I had to blame some of it on bad luck as well. I mean, how many times can you really trip over your own feet before you end up facing the fact that your feet are out to get you and there is no way to stop them? Lately I’d not had any problems with tripping or falling. I was hoping to keep up that good track record, as I felt much better in an upright position.

I got the joke, but I was rather put off by his assertion that I could automatically call myself a writer. I mean, writers were a special breed. They were passionate and always suffering for their art. Writers would starve in cold empty rooms while they labored over their masterpiece. Right?

I wasn’t sure that just because I liked to engage in creative writing, it made me a writer. I felt like I was missing something—some rubber stamp of approval that would be a permanent label that I could carry for the rest of my life—Samantha: The Writer.

I did like the sound of it.

I considered replying and letting him know what I was thinking, but I decided against it. I wanted to think about what he had said a little bit longer. Plus, I needed to figure out how writers dress.

Chapter 2

I typed “how do writers dress” into the search bar and was very anxious to see the results. The first thing to come up claimed that they wore vintage rock tshirts and jeans. I could handle that, though the closest thing I had to a vintage rock t-shirt was an old Garfield shirt that I used as a nightshirt on warm nights. I definitely had the jeans covered.

Another listing described secret writer underpants that all writers wore. I knew that was a joke but it made me rethink my underwear choice. Did writers wear fancy underwear? Did they wear plain nondescript underwear? I realized how weird it was that I was wondering about writers in their underwear. I cringed, thinking that this was probably not going to help me win them over at the coffee shop. Hello, my name is Samantha, will you please tell me what kind of underwear you are wearing?

I laughed at myself and shook my head. I had just wasted way too much time researching underwear.

I went back to my closet to grab a pair of jeans and a print blouse. One thing I was certain of was that writers wouldn’t be caught up in that superficial image stuff that just about every other profession could get swept up into. Writers were relaxed, and free spirits. They didn’t have to look the part for anyone. That aspect of being a writer I could really get into.

As I left the apartment to head to the coffee shop, I thought about stopping to send a message back to Blue but decided against it. I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t going to irritate him with a knee-jerk response to his words. Was I taking them the wrong way?

I drove to the coffee shop with butterflies in my stomach. I always felt a little nervous when I met someone new, but this felt like much more than that. This was about people who would have free reign to evaluate whether I was actually a writer or not.

When I arrived, the cafe was not very crowded. There were many small round tables with high chairs that made me feel as if I would never be able to wedge myself onto them. I frowned and glanced around for the group I was supposed to be meeting. I spotted a few people around a larger table in the very back of the cafe. They seemed to be engrossed in a deep discussion. I adjusted the strap of my purse on my shoulder and then walked over to them. I paused beside the table and waited for a lull in the conversation. One of the men glanced over at me.

“Can we help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for the writer’s class.”

“Oh, well that’s not us,” a woman said. She looked very critical as she looked at me. “I don’t think there’s any class meeting here tonight.”

“No? My mistake.” I frowned and started to turn away. I wondered if I had gotten the nights mixed up somehow. I was certain I was at the right cafe.

“Wait, are you looking for the writers’ group?” the man asked.

“Yes.” I tried not to blush. I’d already mixed up my words. Some writer.

“Well then you’ve found us. I’m Charlie and you can join us if you like,” the man said. “I mean, we’re not a writing class, but you might be able to add to our conversation.”

I knew I had an escape window. I considered it because the woman who had spoken was scrutinizing me as if I was a choice piece of meat. She was dressed impeccably, with a satiny white blouse and crisp black pants. I knew if I backed down now I would never be brave enough to join a writers’ group again. So I decided to stay.

“Sure, what’s the topic?” I struggled my way up into one of the empty chairs.

“Whether fantasy has any worthy role in reality.” He looked at me from behind his black plastic glasses expectantly. I felt as if he wanted me to have an astute observation to share. But the truth was that I hadn’t even fully processed what he said just yet.

“Please tell us what you think,” the woman said. “If you’re a writer, I’m sure you can keep up with the debate.”

I cringed at her words. Was I a writer? Could I really call myself that? I wasn’t so sure. Still I smiled at her.

“My name’s Samantha. I’m honestly just starting out as a writer. I mean—I’ve always written, but never really thought about doing it as a career.”

“I see,” the woman said. “What does that have to do with our topic?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m a bit of a nervous talker.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Oh, hush, Audrey. Samantha, you’ll have to get used to Audrey. She’s had two books published so she knows everything. Right, Audrey?”

“I never claimed to know everything.” Audrey lifted her nose in the air. I wasn’t sure that she was actually disagreeing with him.

“I’m Ben.” The man across from me waved his hand. “And that’s Sheldon.” He pointed to a man walking back toward the table with an overflowing basket of pastries. Just the sight of them made my mouth water. I had been good about avoiding carbs and sweets. This was both. I didn’t think I was going to be able to resist.

“Ah, yes, bring the junk food, Sheldon. Maybe it will sweeten your prose a bit.”

“Hey, it only needs to be sweetened in your opinion, Audrey. I think it’s just fine.” He set the basket of pastries down on the table. I smiled at him as he glanced at me.

“Who is this?”

“This is Samantha.” Audrey answered for me with a funny look on her face. “She’s just deciding to be a writer.”

“Oh.” Sheldon cleared his throat and sat down beside me. I felt distinctly out of place.

Chapter 3

The only bright spot among the group was Charlie’s soothing smile. I wanted to like him, but I also felt he was a bit amused by me.