What do you call a group of writers? A scribble of writers? A composition? Whatever you call it, I love it. I love belonging to a world that has so much support.
Because writers know what it’s like, they know that blank page is a wall when the words won’t come, they know that pattering anxiety in your chest when the book is due in the next day and its two am and it’s still SO SHIT. They know the 40k stalemate and the ending book blues. They know the pain of the pointless Amazon reviews (1* – ‘Didn’t read it’ – well gee, thanks for helping a sister out). They know the endless shuffle up and down on the Snakes and Ladders that is ranking. And they know the most important thing:
You can still love them, respect them, believe they deserve every wonderful that happens to them…and you can be just the *teensiest* bit jealous.
And that’s okay. Because the writer community accepts that we are fallible. That we are both ‘those crazy writers’ and those ‘business minded individuals who get shit done’. And how glad I am that we get to be both, because I’ve been both my whole life. Before I wrote books, before they were published, before I was up at stupid o’clock in the morning wondering why I do this to myself and surely what I’ve written is shit…before all that, I was a writer.
The writing community gets a bad rap: either we’re airy fairy nutcases, or we’re narcissists, or we’re part of a clique that we weren’t cool enough to be part of in high school. The truth is, when you’re part of a group, it’s powerful, and it’s emotional. Whenever I meet other authors, and they tell me their stories about publication, or deadlines, or how their cover wasn’t what they wanted, or how they went to a book signing in Germany, I realise that I’m part of this undercover world, populated by writers who are also massive fans and readers. You can accidentally meet your idol, and no-one will know, because you’re a writer too.
You’re part of the coven, making magic.