Teena Myers

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My husband, who was more interested in my writing activities than I was, told me I should join a writing group. Meeting other writers sounded like a good idea. I scoured the Internet for the location of a local Christian group. Nothing. I tried the newspaper. Nothing. But there was a meeting at the library about writing, so I jotted down the date and time.

At the conclusion of the meeting, one attendee announced a writers’ meeting in Borders Bookstore. Jackpot! The following Monday, I wandered around the two-story bookstore until I found four people sitting at a table.

“Are you the writers’ group?” They nodded and pointed to an empty chair.

The woman I sat next to leaned close to me and whispered, “Hi, my name is Susan. I’m a pagan.”

I was sure this would be my first and last meeting. These people would never critique my Christian writing.

The meeting began with introductions and a little about the group’s brief history. They were fiction writers who had been meeting for less than a month. Even though the leader of the group and his friend—both science fiction writers—had envisioned a single genre of writers, diversity defined the group. The other members were a Lutheran playwright who also wrote humor, and the friendly pagan writing historical fiction.

They asked me to introduce myself, so I told them the truth. “I write Bible studies, and I have a book published.”

“Published” tipped the scale in my favor. The leader said, “I started the group to encourage the craft of writing. Therefore, all writers are welcome, including nonfiction religious writers.” To my amazement, the pagan—who I later learned was a practicing witch—did not object.

Eventually, an attorney writing an epic, a fantasy writer who worked at a flooring warehouse, a college administrator writing mysteries, an atheist fiction writer, and a counselor writing a children’s book joined the group.

We submitted a paper copy of our writing to everyone in the group. During the week, we circled misspellings, grammatical errors, and made notes on how to improve the submission. The following week, the author listened to each writer share their impressions, before returning the paper copy to its author.

Initially, we had one rule. “Suck it up.” When the members commented on our work, we could not reply until we had been sliced, diced, and roasted. Was it difficult to remain quiet while people pointed out every detrimental item in your writing? Yes, but it worked wonderfully for those thick-skinned enough to endure it.

One day, the attorney returned my submission with an apology. His son had turned it into a coloring book.

“No need to apologize,” I said.

I reached out to take it from him, but he would not let it go. He looked intently at me and said, “When I took your paper away from my son, he told me the paper was about Jesus. How did he know that?”

“He probably saw the word Jesus when he was coloring.”

“No, you don’t understand. My three-year-old son does not know how to read. How did he know this paper was about Jesus?”

At a loss for words, I smiled and shrugged. A few weeks later, the attorney told me he was attending church again.

The pagan never failed to return my submissions riddled with a machine gun blast of profanity. The comments revealed the hurt Christians had inflicted on her. I invited her to dinner to extend a hand of friendship. She told me about Isis. I told her about Jesus.

Our conversation revealed the power of the written word. I read a book about a pastor’s ministry to drug addicts that I found in the library. She read a book about witchcraft that she found in the library. I became a Christian after my family moved to New Orleans. She became a witch after she moved to New Orleans. A book had set the course of our lives on a parallel path that sent us to different destinations.

The profanity did not disappear from my submissions, but it was dramatically toned down, and we became friends. She invited me to write an article about the pagan’s Ostara picnic for my website.  

Susan introduced me to her pagan friends and assured them it was okay to talk to me. I asked one question. “Why did you become a pagan?” Every one of them started with their story of being hurt in the church. The article rebuked Christians and pagans. The Christians for judging people before we understand their pain, and pagans for rejecting a perfect God based on the actions of imperfect people.

An unknown pagan posted the article to Witchvox, a website witches used to communicate with each other. Within forty-eight hours there were 4,000 comments posted. Most of the comments reflected pity that Christians had deluded me. Some comments were hateful. I asked Susan if she posted the article. She had not and visited the site to investigate.

With her usual string of profanity, she came to my defense. She informed her fellow witches that I was more serious about my faith than they were about theirs. They should be ashamed and shut up. That is exactly what they did. Susan’s comment was the last one made about the article. I found the irony of a witch defending me before her peers amusing.

As the years elapsed, writers came, and writers left. Some left in wonderment that we did not perceive their genius. Others left angry when we suggested their writing needed improvement. Many departed upon the realization that they would not be an overnight success depositing a million-dollar advance check any time soon, perhaps never.

Otto, a Jewish man who wasn’t sure what he believed about God, joined us for a short season. I wondered what this Jew would think when I handed him a copy of Heaven’s Address for his critique.

The critiques about my article were brutal. I bit my tongue and endured. Otto was the last to speak. I held my breath expecting his critique to be the worst. He said, “This is damn fine material,” then proceeded to blast the group with a string of profanity that eclipsed Susan’s. He berated them for every negative thing they said and would not stop talking about the merits of my submission. The leader interrupted him to dismiss the group. Otto picked up where he left off and followed me out of the bookstore singing the praises of Heaven’s Address.

I chuckled all the way home. My Jewish Savior had sent a Jew to defend me!

Our writing steadily improved until some received payment for their finely crafted work. We rejoiced and “high fived” the proud authors. The children’s writer won an award for her fiction book about a young boy’s experience during Hurricane Katrina. The playwright won a competition to have her play produced. We attended the sold-out opening night to celebrate her success. She also co-wrote a book with her deaf daughter that was sold nationwide by Barnes & Nobles and purchased by libraries.

We were happy until strangers wanted what we had. Fear gripped the faithful. We no longer critiqued one to three members’ work per meeting. We had to wait weeks for a critique, and then we had to wait months. Grumbling rumbled through the group.

“This group is too big,” said one member.

“Something needs to be done,” affirmed another.

“Patience,” I cried. “Nothing happens fast in publishing, so what does it matter if we have to wait?” My plea was met with scowls of disgust. New rules were discussed, but the submissions that came in like a flood subsided and the group breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, our relief was short-lived. The bookstore blessed us with advertising. More strangers arrived wanting what we had, but the group no longer wanted to share. If we shared, we had to wait.

“Why can’t we welcome these strangers and wait if we must?” I sighed.

“These new people will destroy our group,” someone cried.

“But the purpose of the group is to encourage the craft of writing.”

Our leader shed his shepherd clothes and crowned himself sovereign king. He extended his scepter and decreed that the strangers must prove their worth. They must wait for weeks and then we will read their writing to see if they are worthy to sit among us. This time I scowled in disgust, as they forsook the noble purpose of encouraging the craft of writing.

A minority in the group saw the strangers as a loss. I saw them as gain. What did we have to fear? Writers with new ideas and fresh perspectives. Unfortunately, a united minority decided which path the group would follow. They abandoned the purpose of the group that had made it possible for me to participate, to adopt rules that made it hard for people to participate.

The strangers did not destroy us. The rules did. I knew from years of Bible study that the letter of the law kills; the Spirit gives life. My opposition to the influx of rules fell on deaf ears. I didn’t want to quarrel with people who had become beloved friends. I didn’t leave the group; they left me, and later guaranteed I would never return by adding another rule: fiction writers only.

TO BE CONTINUED…