When I was in the bar after Station Stories last Friday night, I was invited to join a writing group by two of the storytellers. (I think that one of the points to take away here is that we were in the bar. Still, the invitation hasn't been nixed, so perhaps their judgement wasn't totally clouded by grog.)
Anyway, there are now five of us in the group. I'm not sure who gets to be Timmy the dog. We even have a name: Inklings. Cute, huh? The idea is that once a month two members of the posse circulate some work up to about 5,000 words (though crucially for me, thank the stars, it doesn't have to be more than 500 - I can't imagine 5,000! What does that even /look/ like?), then a week or so later we get together and ransack it. We discuss what is working, what isn't, what needs more detail, what needs less; what will make it is as good as possible.
It's a swell idea, except I've been shitting bricks about the whole thing all week. Everyone seems to be writing a novel. I'm not writing a novel. At least I wasn't. I mean, I might one day. But it will be a Mills & Boon. Um, I am largely incapable of writing anything more than 400 words. I can't even rumble out a standard short story most of the time. Anyway, noone seems to give a monkeys, so I calmed down a bit; stopped mainlining gin and put the knives away.
And then I saw my horoscope: "Working with a diverse group won't be easy, but it will be illuminating. You can learn valuable skills from a young renegade character. In return, you will give your group comfort and stability."
Great: I'm comfortable and stable, like a pair of M&S slippers.