Writing Group

God has blessed me with an opportunity to join a local writing group. These folks get together once a month, to share about their experiences in the publishing world and to critique one another. Tonight will be my second meeting, and I am really looking forward to it.

There is such a gamut of age, personality, writing style and purpose. I feel sharpened just being in the same room with these people. There are college kids, young mothers, full-time freelance writers, speakers and publishers all gathered around one kitchen table. I find a wealth of knowledge and resources at my fingertips and what's more, I am blessed with the relationships I am building with people who share the same passion.

So what's your passion? What do you LOVE to do? It may be working in the garden, decorating a room, collecting buttons or widdeling wood. Whatever it is, I encourage you to start praying for a "group" that you can go to for encouragement and support. If you are not able to find one out there . . . then here's is a chance for you to get one started!

Life is too short not to spend time doing what you love. Don't pay any attention to whether you are any good or not . . . perfection will come with practice.

Here is the assignment I am bringing tonight. We were asked to write a fiction piece of 650 words. We were given only the first sentence, "He couldn't see the end of the line."

Remember, this is the un-cut version. I'm sure after tonight, there will be quite a few tweaks.

End of the Line
By Joanne Reese

He couldn’t see the end of the line. Steward Moore stared blankly into the bay. The water’s reflection made it difficult for him to trace the bait below. It was his favorite fishing spot, and the most tranquil part of the afternoon; at least it was on most days. A patch of soft grass held his strong build, as he rested under the shade of the evergreen. Sun rays danced off the water as it set to the west. With legs crossed and arms folded, Stewart sat stunned. His dog Sparky slept devotedly by his side.

It had been exactly one month, two weeks, four days, seven hours and fifteen minutes since the rug was pulled out. He thought about that balmy afternoon. It appeared to be a typical day. But as he arrived home from work, Steward discovered a cold and distant welcome. The pot roast he was anticipating never made it to the table, leaving a pit in his empty stomach. The absence of Lydia’s cooking aroma went deeper than the “take-out” he would have to settle for that day. The note on the kitchen table explained everything.

It was an argument he and Lydia had practically perfected. There was never much shouting, but always a deafening impasse. It had to do with her insistence that they “get out” more, and his counter plea to spend more time at home. This time, there would be no making up. There would be no more talking things through, or watching her cry - no more feelings of emptiness. That dreadful August afternoon he found his kitchen empty, and his marriage crumbling.

As the fishing line danced in the wind, Stewart retrieved the note from his pocket. He’d read it a million times. The tear stains and frayed edges were a dead giveaway. He found himself looking once every hour, on the hour, and in all the desperate moments in between. Stewart usually found himself obsessing over a knot in his shoelace or a wrinkle in the bed. But these days, his quirkiness seemed more extreme. With nobody to share the bed with, he chose to forget the wrinkles. He was on to more important things, like fixating on that letter.

Stewart’s eyes scanned the familiar prose. The note started out okay. “Dearest Stewart, I will never love another like I love you,” was the opening line. But it went downhill from there. Lydia began drudging up failures and past mistakes. The whole mess eventually led to the sentence that broke his heart.

“I’m leaving you. I can’t live such a mind-numbing existence.”

Stewart pulled a drink out of the cooler and popped open the can. The sound of the carbonation echoed off the canyon. It startled Sparky, sending a series of barks across the water. Quiet, boring, alone . . . this was his life. How would he ever live without his beloved Lydia? They had spent twenty five years together. After raising two daughters and a golden retriever, how could she just vanish?

As the sun sent its last rays, Stewart decided to put an end to his misery. A quiet life is what he always loved. A simple homebody who loved a home cooked meal and a walk through the woods - this was Stewart. Lydia just never understood that. She was always nagging him about this or that; discontented and full of fury.

Stewart crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball. He had spent the first half of his life trying to drown out the noise of complaint. He refused to spend the rest of his life trying to snuff out the defeat of regret.

Stewart Moore couldn’t see the end of the line. A new start seemed so uncertain. But one thing was clear, Sparky and the warm sun were his absolutes. And that was all he needed to give that letter a good toss.