PREDATOR
AND PREY
She hung up on me. I don’t
understand. She was the one who phoned
me. Four o’clock in the afternoon. A stranger I don’t even know, and she hung up
on me.
When I answered the phone,
she said her name was Ann and she was calling about the writing group she had
seen mentioned in the paper.
Eagerly, I said, “Yes, what
would you like to know?”
“How many members do you
have?” she queried.
I told her we can have
anywhere from four to twelve people attending any of our weekly meetings.
“So who leads your
group?” she wanted to know.
“We don’t really have
a leader. We’re all equals,” I told her.
“What is your format
for meetings? Do you read? Do you critique?” she asked imperatively.
“We all read, either
our own work or something about writing.
If we critique after a reading, it’s what we call a soft critique. If anybody wants an in-depth critique, we ask
they provide a hard copy of their work and we will work on it and bring it back
at a later date,” I explained.
“You mean you can’t
critique just from a reading? I ask
because I teach creative writing and if you know how to listen properly you can
critique a reading,” she said with disdain.
“But that might not be
fair to the writer,” I said. “How can
you give a comprehensive critique when you only hear maybe one chapter or part
of a chapter?” I asked.
“Don’t you people want
to learn anything. Don’t you want
somebody to tell you what’s wrong with your work? Or do you just want others to say how nice
your writing is?” she demanded in her strident voice.
“We all want to
learn. But this is mainly a support
group. It’s not a class with a teacher.
We like our informal setting. And there is a very fine line between
critiquing and stifling creative expression,” I defended.
“Thank you,” she
responded with impatience in her voice.
And then I heard
it. That click as the line went
dead. She hung up on me. I stared at the
phone in my hand, waiting for indignation to assault me, but it didn’t. I only felt relief that I had escaped her witch’s
talons. Then I started to cackle as I
pulled out my pen and wrote this down.
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By Lisa A. Hatton
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