What a joy to see the old young faces again. Bernie had been bugging me to leave my work and come out and play. Jean was radiant. Margaret was stunning. Forrest so obviously happy and proud. Margot still whimsical. Joyce and Peter, lyrical. Llilija conspiratorial. And that was just on the outside. The depth of all these characters so evident in the genius of the works. There were dozens of new faces and I’d only been away a year or two that seemed like just yesterday.
Pens, and typewriters had been wholly displaced by word processors now displaced by telepathic mind meld machines linking all directly to the world internet. People still called themselves authors. They spoke of fiction and non fiction. Auto bio and bio. Poetry and prose. What Home Security missed the Chinese were glad to catch. Hidden cameras everywhere and drones. I thought the waiter mght well be a spy from the Federation or at very least the Writer’s Union.
The book remains an art form, tangible, immutable. They were being launched all the while I was away. Great ideas cast out to the masses and picked up by orbitting satellites. Martians didn’t understand our news but did so love Earth’s poetry. Digital no longer held solely clinical connotations.
Names like Kindle,Amazon, Wordpress and Google were bandied about. The Old Spaghetti Factory was a terrific venue. The conversations flowed. Laughter entwined. Introverts hardly ever out of their garrets listened for bon mots they could put in the mouths of heroine lab rats fighting for better work conditions. I felt warm and fuzzy disarmed by consecutive hugs by authors. I felt like a good read on an autumn afternoon. There were sounds of bubbling brooks and ocean surf in the back ground.
It’s such a solitary activity writing. Days and years of intense mental masturbation culminating in a disgusting public debauchery spectacle of marketting and interviews. There is even money dropped here and there like crumbs in a treasure hunt. There are even formulas for the babies and for those who tire of genius and obscurity. Pornography sells. Fifty Shades and that’s okay. The person in the corner over there beside the pretty children’s book author once wrote political speeches. A lurking newswriter with tobacco stained fingers only shares his psychedelic love poetry here. The sweetest little thing in tailored blouses is noted for her messy murders. We all have our secrets. We’ll put yours in a book if its a doozy or ours have passed their shelf life.
I used to lunch with the executive and board. There’s always room for service. This writer's organization is the oldest in Canada. Subtle. Writer’s helping writers. At the lunch we’d discuss who we wanted to invite to the monthly meetings of the association. I loved the monthly meetings . We met publishers, agents, advertisers, television producers and all these other dull moths who circle the heavenly light of authors. What I found was that to my shock they were really interesting people who had fascinating lives and loved authors, books and poetry, like any other garden variety fetishist. I learned alot from them.
I also met some of my all time favourite writers, those major hits with books sold at the supermarket check out counters and in airport kiosks. This gave a face for my envy. Later I could perfect my voodoo dolls and sharpen the needles and pins. Meanwhile I’d read all of their works.
The presidents, past preidents, new presidents and treasurers and secretaries all had their say. It was brief. Authors may mince their words but they don’t waste them. Some actually punctuate. I was sad to leave but for me it was a work night. What a fabulous group.
But then if you write, as we all do ,being among other writers is like being at home. I compare it to a ward of multiple personality disorders who have avoided the butterfly nets. They actually admit to hearing voices but call them their ‘muse’. A thoroughly entertaining eccentric lot. The price of admission and belonging is a more like a haiku than a sonnet.
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