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He had thought it would help his writing to join a writer’s circle.
Alan had been sitting on his first draft for months, terrified that there would be more work in editing the thing than there had been in writing it. He had basked in the pride of having written an entire story and couldn’t bare having to cut away pieces or to reshape it. As he walked towards the apartment block with a printed copy of his first chapter, he hoped they would not have many notes for him. Surely they would at least go easy on him for the first week?
It had been difficult to find this group. They had actually advertised in the newspaper of all places. Even to someone who bragged to his barista (who knew his order by heart) about writing a crime novel, it seemed pretentious. However, he had needed to find the right audience for his work and the ad reading “crime writers meeting – serious interest only” had given him a good impression. After he sent the listed email address his first chapter, he had quickly received an invitation to the meeting.
It seemed odd to invite a stranger to an apartment, rather than vetting them in public first, but he assumed the group outnumbering him made them feel that there was no danger. He supposed the real risk was to him, but he carried a pocketknife just in case. Not that he thought it would come to that.
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