Flotsam

Receiving a letter in this age of email, instant messaging, and captioned photographs shot deliriously from cell phone to cell phone—Look! A fat man! A funny hat! A chicken!—is a joy. Words, whole words, not abbreviated, linked together to form sentences, printed on paper by someone who cares enough to spell out the words “for” and “you”–yes, receiving a letter in this age of electronic communication is a joy.
Waiting for a letter in this age of email, instant messaging, and the aforementioned captioned cellular photographs, is hell. I should know. I recently waited four fortnights for a letter.
Even using words like “fortnights” though, doesn’t trick me into thinking that there is anything quaint or novel about waiting, in this craven, desperate way, for written communication. I merely felt Amish–stranded by the side of the Autobahn with a broken wagon axle as fuel-efficient Audis raced by, whisking the sensible black brimmed hat from my head.
I live on an upper floor of my apartment building, and the mailboxes are located downstairs, in a well-lit vestibule. In order to ascertain whether the mail has arrived, I must walk down three creaky flights of stairs carrying my keys, jangling as I go to announce to my neighbors the depths of my backwardness. Most people do not receive letters. Most people receive missing children notices, coupons for substandard supermarket products, and bills. Thus my neighbors had no reason to believe that I was waiting for a document of great emotional import–for all they knew, my days are so empty, so utterly bereft of the things that make life worth living, that the arrival of coupons for substandard supermarket products is, for me, a cause celebre.
I prefer to think they imagine me a detective, selflessly concerned with the welfare and whereabouts of Raoul Diaz, last seen 11/2/87, and Lauren Baxter, her age progressed photograph showing just the tired, drawn look I would expect in a woman who has been kidnapped for nearly 20 years.

Anyway, it finally arrived, this letter, from the editor of a small but respectable publication, and it was not pleasant reading. Rejection letters seldom are–my favorite being one I received last year that said: “This is not a reflection on your writing.”
How foolish of me to think so!
I suppose they just lined up all the submissions and threw hatpins at them.
The piece that was recently rejected was over a year old, as are most of the pieces I send out, and this recent rejection has made clear something I have feared for some time—I may actually have to do some new writing, one of these days. Much as I would like to believe in the possibility that diligent elves will one night transform the notes scribbled on sundry receipts, deposit slips and cocktail napkins into a book of well-crafted and—dare I say it?—brilliant essays, I am forced to admit that this is unlikely.
So I am thinking of starting an informal writing group to keep me on task.

Interest in the life and process of The Writer (especially among other writers, who simply cannot get enough of themselves) seems to be at an all time high. From Teething Biscuit to Bread Loaf: A Writer’s Story might be this year’s bestseller. Policemen, Botanists, Anesthesiologists—thousands have signed up for workshops and “Writing: It’s Not Just For Writers Anymore!” retreats.
As I cannot help but be aware that not everyone has the money, or indeed the inclination, to enter into an established community of artists all eager to hear what you think of their lesbian retelling of Hills like White Elephants, I thought it would be germane to outline the basic workshop format I have followed in the past, for persons yearning to start a writing group of their own.

You will need:
A colleague
1 bottle bourbon
Ice
Shaker
Red pens (2)
Maraschino Cherries
Sweet vermouth
Orange bitters
Chilled cocktail glasses (2)
Printed copies of your recent work

The Process:
1. Fill shaker with ice. Add a quantity of bourbon, half as much sweet vermouth, and 5 dashes orange bitters. Place lid on shaker, as well as cap (do not omit this step!). Shake. Pour mixture into chilled cocktail glasses and garnish with cherries.
2. Exchange printed copies of recent work
3. Exchange caveats re: recent work. This should take at least 15 minutes.
4. Uncap pens and settle in to read.
5. Startle like trauma survivor each time you hear the whisking of your colleague’s pen on paper—What is she writing? It’s that second paragraph, isn’t it? You knew the dialect was a mistake.
6. Take a large slurp of your Manhattan.
7. Offer unhelpfully vague opinion that colleague’s piece is well written, especially sentences x and y.
8. Ask colleague to tell you what her piece is really about. For both of you, this has nothing to do with plot, characters, etc.—rather, what theme, what universally felt and nearly universally ineffable truth, are you attempting to shed light upon with your inadequate linguistic skills? The following are examples:
“Well, ostensibly it’s about losing my first tooth, but it’s really about time.”
or:
“It takes place at a T-ball game, but what it’s about, really, is all of the tiny forms loneliness takes.”
This step should take a very, very long while. Longer than you would have thought possible. After this step, it is advisable to repeat Step 1.
9. Explain to your colleague that though you see what she means, though you get the connection between First Tooth & Time, or T-ball & Loneliness, you aren’t certain that the reader will grasp that you are dealing with larger things than teeth and team sports.
10. Colleague becomes depressed.
11. Assure colleague that she is the most talented writer you have ever known…
12. …much more talented that yourself.
13. Begin to cry.
14. Repeat Step 6.
15. Your colleague draws you a complex diagram of the narrative structure she thinks would be most appropriate for your recent work. This diagram is labeled with words and fragments of words which, while meaningful at the time, will seem inexplicable when viewed the next day.
16. Remark, not untruthfully, that the diagram looks very much like a squirrel.
17. Colleague is offended. Colleague says, frostily, that none of this matters anyway, as she is too busy working at meaningless job to write.
18. Brainstorm money-making ideas. These are not employment opportunities, but rather things like the scheme you will eventually settle on, which is selling your underpants on a singles telephone line.
19. Decide your panties will sell better in pairs, and if, in your phone message, you are hot lesbians named Chloe and Niki. Argue over who is Chloe.
20. Devote 15 or 20 minutes to the composure and editing of message.
21. Abandon scheme as too labor-intensive.
22. Repeat Step 1.
23. Colleague asks Why We Write.
24. Give speech about interpreting experience through language, touching on meaning of life and importance of humor in These Troubled Times.
25. Repeat step 6, and begin discussing failed past relationships.
26. Colleague demonstrates interesting hand-job technique on neck of bourbon bottle.
27. Nearly Fiance, shuffling past, is revealed to have seen entire demonstration.
28. Adjourn, agreeing to meet again next week, at the same time, but at your colleague’s apartment.