Our Writer's Circle met tonight. A bit of a Writer's Triangle actually. A couple of members begging off, homewook not done, wild sex lives interfering, watching American Idol, putting finishing touches on an underground manifesto, getting writer's rates from terrorists who found their lack of spelling and punctuation was reducing their credibility, whatever excuses absent writers can come up with when they can't bring themselves to meet with other writers.
But we met without them. And gossipped about their work and their nails and their hair. "And imagine she dressed her character in the same sensible shoes she was wearing herself!"
That said, there was murder and mayhem with bodies strewn all over San Francisco and the Pacific Ocean. It's going to be a bloody year. Already 5 victims were mutilated, extinguised, savaged, excremented, put to the death, desisted, outsourced, and otherwise made dead by just two writers. Police, killers, private eyes, intrigue, adventure, magic and profound insights on life by writers who really do write.
And then we gossipped some more. Stories about families, work, and other writers. More gossip about the Canadian Authors Association writers. "Really!" "He said that." "She did not."
And then we went our separate ways into the night. We're be back at it in a couple of weeks. I'll have to kill another character if I'm to keep up with the murderous Jones. I can't wait to see whose still alive next week.
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