On Writing Community

and how it worked for me recently, which wasn't how I expected it to work

Six weeks ago, I hosted two writer friends (hi, Katie! hi, Dena!) here in Nashville for a long weekend. We went to bookstores and vintage shops, saw a show at the Grand Ole Opry and another at Robert’s Western World, waited in a ridiculously slow drive-thru line at Smoothie King, drank tons of coffee, watched women’s college basketball, talked good trash, laughed, and, on two brief occasions, wrote together.

I thought the writing sessions would be the best parts of our gathering, the butts-in-chairs motivation I needed to persevere through a rough-ish patch. And those sessions were good, productive, but the real writing magic happened, is still happening, in the weeks after they left. I found myself, still find myself, sitting in my chair and writing for them; the work has been hard but consistent. I’m writing for these women because they put themselves on planes to visit me in the name of our shared love of words and books and dreams. All three of us have busy lives, jobs, partners, and several children between us (I’m the auntie in our friend group, so I can’t lay any claim to the impossible lifestyle of juggling children and writing) and so now I owe it to them to keep going. And I think of how incredibly fortunate I am to have chosen, over and over again, a writing life—a life that can be difficult, dispiriting, and disappointing (and incredibly joyful, too!)—if for no other reason than it led me to them.

Love,

Amy