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I’m going to my first writer’s group today.  We’re going to meet at the Shelton library.  I’m a little nervous.  I mean, I don’t have any material.  Houghton Mifflin is not hounding me.  Sure, I have this blog.  I don’t, however, have any short stories, poems, or unfinished novels lying around.

Which begs the question…why not?

I think I haven’t let myself work on things like that.  They seem “trivial”.  Like a blog is so substantial!  I haven’t struggled with creating a character or a plot or denouement.  It’s not how I roll.  I am not sure if I will be considered worthy.

Will I find them, these other wordsmiths, lost members of my tribe?  Is there an essay test? Will we bond over the correct use of “its”? Will I have to give a blood sample or some DNA?  “Susan, are you *really* a writer?  I need 10 synonyms for nice.  Go!”

So I think I’ll print a few blog posts and read them, if asked.  Is any of my work any good?  Dunno.

Failing that, I’ll blend into the wallpaper and observe, taking deep breaths of the rarefied air. Isn’t that what writers do? It’s a bit overwhelming to finally get to know other locals of my ilk, in the flesh.