I belong to two writing groups. An online group that meets on Sundays and a local group that used to meet at Starbucks on Wednesdays, but has switched to Discord due to Covid.
The online group has been my steady rock. If anything, more writers are showing up on Sundays, the conversation gets deeper and craftier (though we bitch early and often about the state of Everything.
My local group has pretty much dissolved. Oftentimes it’s me and one other writer. I’m crabby about it. And yelling at myself about being crabby. Covid and everything else going wrong in the world has thrown everyone’s schedules into the shredder, and that’s without taking in the trauma we’re all trying to process, along with heaping doses of unwanted or desperately-wanted-but-coming-far-too-late change.
I’m trying to assume good intent, or at the very least bad shit heaped on good people and they’re just trying to get by. But it stings that my local group all fluttered away. That our creative time together was the first thing to get pitched aside. That we don’t e-mail about stories and processes and craft like we used to.
And I fret about when it’s time to come together again. Maybe October, maybe 2021. By then, not showing up will be habit and I think it will be the end of my group. 2020 has us mourning way too many people and things already. I don’t want to mourn anything else.