On Writing Communities
When we think of writers, what do we picture? For many of us we see a cluttered desk in a home office, papers strewn every which way while a person sits staring at a computer screen with a permanent frown. The coffee on the desk has long gone cold, and this book isn’t writing itself. If you’re in my age bracket, you might actually just picture Johnny Depp from Secret Window. (Side Note: If I had a lakeside cabin with a cleaning service that I could run away to, I don’t think I’d be murdering anybody. That’s a sweet set up, mon frere.) The point is, when we think of the writing life, we picture a life of solitude, torment, and frequently alcoholism. I largely blame this on Ernest Hemingway, but I’m liable to blame just about any literary complaint on “Papa,” which is a topic for another post. Truthfully,…