“It takes two flints to make a fire.”

~ Louisa May Alcott

Do you prefer being alone, finding people thoroughly exhausting? Or do you recharge at your writing circle or book club dinners, basking in the company of great storytellers and curious readers? Or are you somewhere in between?

I’m a homebody who prefers to write for days on end without interruption. All that to say, I live by the mottos: “Writing is better when shared” and “Friends don’t let their friends write alone.” With the right support systems, writing gets stronger—whether your feedback’s coming from one, two, or twelve. Validation. Refinement. Permission. No matter if you’re a loner or the belle of the ball, who doesn’t want an answer to this question: Was it good for you too?

We think of reading and writing as solitary endeavors. But they sure don’t start off that way.

With my head on my mother’s shoulder and footie pajamas barely hanging over the end of the couch, my eyes were glued on the colored drawings of Dorrie the Little Witch, an enchanted girl with a black cat named Gink and a powerful and wise, if not intimidating, mother they called Big Witch. As Mom read from the series during our nightly ritual, I ached to be Dorrie. Never mind that, despite her grand intentions and pure heart, she was always landing Gink and herself into trouble—casting misshapen spells, befriending dangerous wizards, accidentally turning Cook into a blue horse. “Her hat was always on crooked, and her socks never matched.” I could relate. But no matter how hairy the situation author Patricia Coombs set up for our protagonist, Dorrie’s inherent goodness would win out. Every mess she’d instigated or had been thrust upon her would magically right itself, just in the nick of time.

Sharing Dorrie’s harrowing escapades with my mom, a witness to the magic, helped me believe in my own magic. When Dorrie’s story line made me laugh or cheer, Mom laughed and cheered too. When my pulse would race, my mother’s comforting presence let me know things would be okay. We were IN it together.

Books were my parents’ greatest shared joy. When not reading to Carol and me, they’d look up from their novels or New Yorker or San Francisco Examiner articles to read to each other from their leather recliner chairs, a Bach concerto tinkling over the hi-fi. “Honey! Listen to this!” they’d call out. I never could figure out how they’d keep finding their places with so many interruptions, but I secretly loved the chaotic camaraderie of it.

I also loved Mondays (still do!), which were Library Days. Sis and I would tumble out of Mom’s Buick Riviera and race to the front door of the most magical building in town. We’d carry teetering stacks back home, buzzing with excitement as we scanned the spines, eager to start traveling through time, space, and place, craving both bookish solitude and a longing to share our adventures aloud and compare notes, like Mom and Dad.

Sue Monk Kidd

My first reader is my daughter.* She’s an excellent reader and gives me great feedback. It surprised me how great she was. I thought maybe it would be good for her as a writer, but it turned out it was best for me. I give her every chapter of my work, and she reads it, and she will respond to it and tell me what she thinks. And she has some good suggestions. For The Book of Longings, I said to her, “It’s very important that I portray the character of Jesus as having some playfulness about Him, some humor, some ordinariness too.”

She said, “Why don’t you have Ana give Him a haircut?”

I thought, That’s brilliant. I’m going to do that. And I did.

Laura Munson

My writing life has been my refuge since I was a little girl. But there was a time in my early twenties when I started living the writing life with the express intention of making a career out of it and knew I needed to be around people who understood this longing. That’s when I joined a writing group that met every Monday for five years in Seattle. We had rules: no socializing until afterward. Tea. Kindness. Some of the best feedback I’ve ever gotten was from those women! We are still very close and take annual retreats together, even though we all live far from each other. I think that’s because we were young together, helping each other dream big. I love thinking that their support helped me make my dream come true.

Jenny Lawson

It’s hard to listen to criticism. You’re not going to get better if you don’t. But it’s also hard not to get steamrolled by it. My husband no longer gets to read my books. He does have the opportunity to. I say, “You can read it, and if there’s something that you see and you’re like, ‘Oh, don’t put that in there.’” But he knows enough to know that the way that he gives criticism is actually harmful to me. It makes me feel like I never want to write again, and that everything I write is terrible.

Instead, I have three friends who are my beta readers. I will call them and read to one of them. I’ll listen for, are they laughing at the right place? Do they stop me and go, “Wait, what is this?” I know that they’re going to encourage me and be very honest. Then I can fix it and call the next person a week later and be like, “Okay, let me read this,” and they’ll be like, “Am I the first one hearing it?” and I’m like, “Oh yeah, totally, totally. You’re the first one.” Because I am a liar.

After that, it goes to my agent and she’s so kind and so good about saying, “I love this. I wish it was a little bit more . . .” She’s found the “Jenny language.” Then it goes to the copy editor. You don’t realize until you write a book how many people are going to see it and go, “I don’t like this, I don’t like this, I don’t like this.” If you have a personality where you already sort of hate yourself, and they say, “You’ve got a lot of run-on sentences,” then you’re like, “I’ll never write again!”

It had been a full year since my book dream, and yet I was still nowhere near publication. With Mom 350 miles away; Carol, a whirling dervish of busy; and my best friend, Diane, now married to an NFL quarterback and living in Arizona, I was in need of a little chaotic camaraderie. And magic. Enter, Big Witch.

Meredith, my new friend, was stunning, with long, jet-black hair, bright green eyes, and ivory skin taut around her high cheekbones. She felt instantly familiar when Jesse and I bumped into her in a store, and Jesse, who’d already met her, introduced us.

“You have to come to my house Wednesday night!” Meredith declared. A dozen or so female fellow creatives (a Hollywood script supervisor, a producer, a painter, a few actresses, some entrepreneurs) met weekly for moral support and manifestation mojo. A way to unburden themselves so they wouldn’t need to endure their lows alone while also bringing positive vibes and healthy structure to their lives and goals.

Uncharacteristically shy, I hesitated.

“Come on!” said Meredith, herself a singer-songwriter. I loved her certainty. She felt powerful and wise, mothering even, despite our close ages. I had a sense she knew things I didn’t and would up my game.

Did she ever! From our first meeting, I thought SHE was the one who should write a book.* In a town that breeds some of the fiercest competition in the world, I was embraced as if I’d been a founding member all along.

Wednesdays were my favorite day—a chance to get dressed up and surround myself with femininity for a change. The women had years of mastery beneath them but didn’t mind that I was a breastfeeding, sleep-deprived mom at the very start of learning my craft.

With organized precision, Meredith ran the group with a timer and bylaws, and like real adults, we went sanely around the circle, sharing our triumphs and setbacks, and garnering feedback and encouragement. I tried not to be too obvious about my obsession with the bowl of Thin Mints at the center of the table. Do the others not see what I see? Those evil little Girl Scouts!

Meredith had been in several high-profile bands but was looking for the right match. “You’re going to be huge!” I told her. I could feel it. I felt similarly about Janet, a budding actress who’d moved to LA from Texas, where she’d been a homecoming queen, a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, and a flight attendant. She and her Crest-white smile had been in the Hollywood game for a while. Unlike so many golden children who swiftly hightail it back home when pitted against so many other goldens, Janet wasn’t going anywhere. She wore success like an aura around her head. It was merely a matter of time.

And then there was Carrie-Anne, an actress whose face I’d seen on TV but couldn’t recall where. She’s so sweet and pretty, I thought upon meeting her. Her sense of calm was hypnotic.

Bronwyn Saglimbeni, communications coach, blogger, podcaster, and speaker, who has written, directed, and produced more than 175 TEDx, TEDGlobal, and TED talks.

When it comes to community, so much of it depends on where you are in the journey. For me, it’s got to be about the work and the quality of the output, not the deeper relationship dynamics that come with a group of people who are intimately connected. Of course, the group needs to be compassionate and fair, but I’m definitely not there for friendship.

A writing retreat was powerful for me, because it was like I received a Sacrament of Writer’s Confirmation: Yes, I can write. YES, I am a writer. The power came from the intimacy and connection I felt with the brilliant women in the group.

But once I was confirmed and convicted in my desires and plans, the handwringing was over. It was time to place ass firmly in the chair and write. I then used the “Write-In” Wednesdays in a private Facebook Group (shout-out to my Beautiful Writers peeps, whom I adored!). I’ve since quit Facebook, but I would show up at a certain time, and we would hold each other accountable for a few hours, checking in at the beginning and at the end. It was heavenly.

I don’t look to writing groups for friendship or even connection. I go to be reminded that I am a writer and that I get to take that role seriously. I go to be reminded that when the timer goes off and it’s time to write, I write. Being with others who take that seriously helps me get going and stay going when I want to run screaming from the chair.

I’ve never gone skydiving, but I’m guessing that the last five minutes of the flight are silent, as everyone goes into a deep place to find their courage. The people on the airplane are together, but mostly in silence . . . their proximity and presence in that moment of risk is the gift. There’s no talking, bleeding, weeping, or bitching. It’s just surrender, the girding of loins, and then the jump. That’s how I like my writing groups—just enough connection and accountability, so I feel supported and able to get down to business.

One day, after a meeting, following on her heels like a puppy to her office studio, I asked Meredith about a manifestation technique I’d heard about—where I was told to imagine just a snippet of what I was hoping to create.

“Do you think that could work?” I asked. “I have a hard time quieting my mind and worry I’ll see and then manifest the opposite of what I want.”

Meredith laughed. While she wasn’t one for quick fixes or “spells,” as it were—preferring to do the real emotional and physical work most people tried to circumvent—she was open-minded, curious.

As she talked, Meredith’s masterful guitar-strumming hands punctuated the air.

“It might be helpful for you to try and slow that racing mind of yours down to a slow crawl, Linda,” she said, her eyes smiling. Was my nervous energy that obvious? People had told me that when Jesse and I walked into a room the way we fed off one another was a little like standing next to a tornado (Mer would say more like “two transformers touching: buzzy”), but I thought that was really all about him.

“It’s so common to hear pro athletes these days talking about visualizing,” Meredith said, considering the topic further. “So, it makes sense that it’s safer to see just a fraction of what you want than trying to control the whole scene by telling God how to do His job. Don’t give your mind too much time to wander.”

As I drove home that night, full of gratitude, I vowed to regularly slow my brain down to imagine just a few seconds of landing dream interviews for my book. I would hold an image on the screen of my mind for a short but concentrated time, and then let it out into the Universe.

Not unlike Dorrie, who flung herself into things broom first, I was unaware how misshapen the results of my “spell” could be in the hands of a new initiate.

Rosie Walsh

When I realized that the solitude of writing (and lack of feedback) was impacting my emotional health, I decided to find a writing partner. I asked a few trusted friends, and they all said they were too busy writing. I was beginning to give up when I went to a friend’s party and saw a woman who said, “I know you don’t really know me, but is there any way you’d be willing to take a look at what I’m writing to put me in the right direction?” This is the crazy bit. She said, “I don’t know what I can offer you in return, but I have a coaching and teaching background [English], and I’d happily look at any of your words, although I’m sure you wouldn’t want my opinion.”

She offered me more than I could possibly imagine. We began sending each other material and we’d meet for two hours, occasionally longer on a Wednesday morning, spending roughly an hour on each manuscript. It was transformative. No matter how much I’m struggling with my work, I can always give helpful feedback on hers, which reminds me that I am a storyteller. And likewise, no matter how much I’m struggling with my novel, she’s always got helpful feedback. She’s gotten me out of so many holes. So many great bits of Ghosted are courtesy of her.

Terry McMillan

Many years ago, I was accepted into the Harlem Writers Guild. I was working on a short story called “Mama, Take Another Step.” I had to read it in front of these writers, some of whom had already been published. I remember I had two shots of tequila first because I was so nervous. I had never read in front of anyone.

As soon as I read the piece, a woman who would become my best friend raised her hand and said, “Honey, that is not a short story. That is the beginning of a novel. You might as well finish it.” There were fourteen people in that room, and I’ll never forget it. Some of them were saying, “She’s right.”

I said, “I don’t know how to write a novel,” and they said, “You’ll learn. This story is not finished.”

Sometimes the group sees what you can’t.

The gals of our support group were really there for each other—which felt comforting, seeing as how some of us were living hand to mouth with all those big dreams yet to come true. There was a lot to be said for being in the trenches together. My crooked hat and mismatched socks couldn’t compare to the style and glam of most of our support group members, yet I reveled in feeling a part of such a select few, grateful to have been chosen. Like the Marines, only without the threat of combat. With the right group, good Lord, magic happens when women come together.

Elizabeth Gilbert

I was lucky enough to be able to read a draft of Marie [Forleo]’s Everything Is Figureoutable at the beginning. That’s always such a vulnerable thing for people to share their work when it’s at that stage, when it’s not lacquered and polished. To be trusted with that—I take that very seriously. I know what it feels like to hand an unbound manuscript to somebody.

You always have to ask the person, “How can I be of service? What can I help you do with this?” There are so many different ways to read an unbound manuscript, and sometimes people just need you to say, “You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you, little bunny.” Pat, pat, little head. Sometimes that’s what I need. I’ll tell my friends, “I don’t want your criticism. I just want your encouragement right now because I’m not ready to be criticized yet.” And then other times it can be very laser, where you say, “Tell me how to get out of chapter five. I’m stuck.” If you really trust somebody, you can ask, “What is your broad sweeps opinion?”

Jesse and I would move out of state before I could witness firsthand the phenomenal results of their discipline and support. But years later, I would carry my favorite parts of our support group dynamics into an actual writing group that, after twenty-three years, is still rock-solid supportive. When we began our bi-monthly lunches at Marmalades on Ventura Boulevard, I was the only one of the five of us with a published book. Over a few years, we’d support each other through the birth of more than twenty books, countless courses, and an Emmy. I’d also bring forth the best of both groups in the creation of my writing retreats, where countless dreams have been realized.

These days, when I think of support groups, I envision trees in a forest, the roots a jumble of interconnections deep beneath the surface of the soil. In his bestselling book The Hidden Life of Trees, author Peter Wohlleben writes that trees and human communities are alike in their advantages of working together. A tree is not a forest. On its own, it can’t establish a consistent local climate and finds itself at the mercy of wind and weather.

“But together,” writes Wohlleben, “many trees create an ecosystem that moderates extremes of heat and cold, stores a great deal of water, and generates a great deal of humidity. And in this protected environment, trees can live to be very old.” Support groups can likewise form a protected climate that nurtures their members to create art that may live well beyond them.

Writers are an introverted bunch, so we can miss out on the benefits of being in a class or group. We’re also sensitive; our muses can wither from a single unkind word. Like trees, we need to develop thick skin. We do this by learning to ask for the support we desire while tuning out the feedback that isn’t helpful or constructive, primarily if it’s delivered by someone with a different sensibility, writing in an unrelated genre, or who would never in a billion years read a book like ours.

Carol Allen

I have several friends who quit writing altogether after getting horrible feedback from teachers and/or other “writers.” I was blessed to have the most wonderful writing coach, who I credit with finding my voice and being one of my most meaningful cheerleaders who helped me fall in love with writing and believe I could do it. But what was tricky was that everything I worked on were projects he’d never want to read. He’d always want me add elements to the work that, for me, were completely off tone—like adding sex scenes to my heartwarming essays about my love of cats. (And yes, I realize there’s a pussy joke in there somewhere.) “Go darker,” he was constantly encouraging.

At one point, with his insightful help, I wrote a screenplay. It was the most fun I ever had, and again, it was something he’d never purposely read, and if made into an actual movie, I knew he’d rather stick needles into his eyeballs than ever go see. But I was in love with it, which was always my litmus test. So, I kept all the silly, whimsical “chick lit” elements that had clearly made him exasperated every time I read aloud in our small writing group. I submitted it to a Los Angeles film festival, one that he happened to enter a screenplay to, as well. Guess which script won best screenplay? Yup, the goofy “girlie” one without a single dark character, or sex scene. (To his credit, he seemed genuinely happy for me. Whew.)

Van Jones

It’s okay if you need a check-in partner beyond your editor. It’s okay to be a part of a group. Don’t move at the slow pace of the group; go as fast as you can. But I put that out there because I think when people imagine someone like Toni Morrison, they see her sequestered in a basement somewhere for twenty years. She’s a social person. She knows a lot of people. She gets out a lot, and it helps her work.

There’s a mythology out there that you, yourself somehow, are supposed to solely and individually go into a basement and create all this stuff on your own. And if you can’t, it’s because you suck, and you just need to suck less. That’s really destructive because even writing a book is a team sport. You need support. I’ve sometimes employed ghostwriters on different parts of things because I know what I want to say, but I don’t have the time to do the research. Because I’m a person that’s in the community, I have people step up and try and help me do different things. You want to think about the community effort you’re leading, the one you have the main responsibility for. But you’re also trying to consolidate community wisdom. When the book is published, to get the book bought and read by anybody, you’re going to have to engage your friends and allies anyway. It’s not just you by yourself. I want writers to give themselves permission to build a support team for themselves.

Feeling isolated wherever you are? Does the idea of trying to envision your book and write it as a one-person show sound lonely (not to mention slightly crazy pants)? Well, this fun factoid won’t help (at least not now; you’ll thank me later—everyone does):

Your friends and even family members won’t read your book. Probably not ever. This often includes your nearest and dearest.

Don’t worry. You’re not special. It happens to all of us. Maybe because they can’t stomach the possibility of not loving it. Or they’re sick to death of hearing you talk about it and resent how it steals your time. Perhaps they’re short on time. Or they love you for you and don’t need further convincing of your worth. Maybe they just suck. All the more reason to find your book people.

Remember, reading and writing—where your first teachers gave you feedback, perhaps even gold stars—started as collaboration. Think about who you can bring with you on this journey that wants to be there. You may have outgrown those footie pajamas, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still need a shoulder to read on. Writing and world-changing are better with a bud, or a group—as in, richer creativity, flatter learning curve, stronger results. More sanity. And laughter. Fellow word-lovers can help you blow past apathy, excuses, overwhelm, and writer’s block.

I recently read that while penning Little Women in the 1860s, Louisa May Alcott sent the first dozen or so chapters off to her publisher, but both parties thought them dull. Thankfully, she enlisted the opinion of several young female readers, who called the manuscript “splendid,” giving them the confidence to publish the book. Its immediate success was a surprise to both author and publisher, but not to those “little” women who saved the day.

Go find your support, your writing confidant, your group! There are factors to consider—such as the size of your gatherings, how often you’ll convene, and where (in person, on video, via email). Will you focus on one person’s work or several? How many pages/words should everyone contribute? Will you read work aloud or come to the meeting with notes, having already read the allotment? Have fun figuring out what will best support you. (This is your creation, after all!) Some people thrive in an environment with a healthy dose of competition and lots of voices. They don’t want to show up without having done their homework while other members are on their A-game. But if that leaves you wanting to hide in the bathroom, how’s about finding a great coach? Or perhaps an intimate retreat would be ideal.

Aditi Khorana, former news journalist, and film marketing executive for Hollywood studios. Mirror in the Sky was Aditi’s first novel, followed by The Library of Fates—a feminist historical fantasy, set in ancient India.

While working on my first book (Mirror in the Sky), I, along with a group of eight of my close writer friends, rented a house in Palm Springs for a week. We were all fledgling creatives, barely getting by, juggling various freelance assignments, trying to make it in the world. Renting that house was a commitment to ourselves, our writing, and each other. I remember it being a week of solidarity and endless, loving, determined labor. We cooked together, workshopped together, brainstormed in the pool, sat around the kitchen table reading each other snippets of our work. In the evening, we mixed cocktails while we edited and read each other’s pages. It was glorious. Now I do this at least once or twice a year with writer friends. It’s generative, inspiring, and so much fun.

It’s important to create goals within your support group that provide sturdy, healthy boundaries. I use a timer at my retreats, so everyone knows how long they have to read and share, and no one hijacks the space. Say a prayer or set an intention at the start of each meeting, and watch breathing slow and shoulders relax as you declare it a sacred space where everyone gives their best and receives exactly what they need. Have each member state what kind of feedback they prefer before they read. Some like nothin’ but the brutal truth. Others will be utterly devastated by any hint of a negative comment.

A technique that works for many is a so-called “feedback sandwich.” Begin with what you like about someone’s work. Offer negative criticism in a constructive way: “When you wrote this, it lost me because . . .” or “I didn’t understand what you meant by . . .” Then finish up with positive remarks. In her classic Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott warns about people who take an “almost orgasmic pleasure” in tearing down others’ work, probably because they’re not solid enough to create their own. Some tough love can be too tough. But feedback that lacks specificity and constructive criticism won’t grow you as a writer. And when you’re on the receiving end, give yourself permission to sit with feedback; don’t feel you need to respond in the moment. Take what resonates and leave the rest.

Sometimes you’ve got the right writing with the wrong folks. Ask yourself: Are these my people? Do they stretch me? Do I respect them enough to show up every week or once a month? If you’re woo-woo and they’re not, you might feel judged; you’ll need the strength, vision, and confidence to say, “No thanks, that’s not what this piece is.”

Feelings are contagious. Science has proven that we feel the emotions of those around us. The “right” people make us believe that all things are possible. Your writing buddy or group will help you have faith in your grand intentions and see options you didn’t know existed. They will motivate you to keep going because you want to show up for others the way they show up for you. Team-work = dreamwork.

__________________

*Ann Kidd Taylor, co-author of Sue’s Traveling with Pomegranates.

*I’m working on Mer; stand by.

*Fun fact: Tomi says on their episode of the podcast that she “gently stalked” Sabaa after reading An Ember in the Ashes. Before that book, Tomi didn’t know it was possible to write a young adult fantasy book—like the bestselling ones she’d then write—where the hero wasn’t white.

9

The Power of Shared Belief

Writing Groups and Accountability Buddies