Curlew of Bluster

Since we moved here, I miss associating with fellow writers. I'd really like to find a writers group that suited my needs. But so far, every time I've tried to reach out to fellow writers, it's been a massive fail. The last organization I signed up with is still sending me things. And for those who like that kind of thing, this is the kind of thing they will like. Recently they sent me a copy of the group anthology. The contents are similar to a high-school literary magazine, though possibly a trifle less pretentious. I don't mean to diss them, because they do a good job of meeting other people's needs. Just not mine.

Now I'm having feelings of dread because I signed up for yet another social occasion with writers. Or possibly with "writers." This remains to be seen. It's a benefit evening, so it's going to cost me money, too. It's a group that wants to organize a literary festival in western Michigan. I consider this an ambitious goal, given that I had paid dues to this group in an earlier incarnation, and then it folded to reorganize before I could use any of its promised benefits. I met one of the organizers over lunch once. He borrowed one of my books. When he returned it, he said he'd "skimmed" it, and that I appeared to have some talent and he'd consider it if I wanted to submit some short fiction to his self-published literary magazine. I thanked him graciously but said I was busy with other projects at the moment. This could be another subsection in the chapter about "Things I Didn't Say," but I'm not sure there would have been any point in telling him off. He seems to be a person who just doesn't have good social skills. So I'm not looking forward to seeing him again. The organization has literary evenings, but they're mostly poetry readings. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's not something I'd be invited to participate in except as audience. They have some educational talks, but they're mostly about things I've already done. I predict that the chances I'll meet even one writer of speculative fiction of professional or near-professional caliber is slim to none, and that's what I really want. I predict I will eat mediocre hors d'oeuvres and clap politely after a reading by someone I've never heard of and come home feeling discouraged. However, I could be wrong.

In other news, it's snowing again.