They looked, more or less, like normal folks - whatever it is normal look likes. Their conversation was lucid, funny and engaging, but nothing really out of the ordinary. By all appearances, they were not unlike the guy you might catch squeezing tomatoes at the Bi-Lo. They had only one problem - addiction. Perhaps a better word would be passion.

The streets of winter-time Waynesville were quiet when I left that meeting of the Smoky Mountain Writers group. I walked slowly back toward the newspaper office, searching for the right words to describe my feelings about the people I had just met. They were writers, published and unpublished, dreamers all who were intent on succeeding at some level in this difficult business of writing.

The group has been meeting less than a year, but already it has formed subgroups who are working on projects together. One group is revising romance novels, preparing to send them off to prospective publishers. A member of another group talked about how members were now proclaiming their status as writers.

“It was a beautiful moment when they owned their authorship,” she said.

Among those sitting in the simple chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the pulpit in the small sanctuary of the church were many successful authors. One was a retired professor from Western Carolina University who had written two textbooks. Now, he’s cruising the intercoastal waterway and putting together a history-memoir-travelogue of his boating adventures. The young blonde woman - who politely asked questions after my talk - has published 10 or 11 mysteries for Ballantine. Another woman has completed a series of a dozen childrens books and is shopping them to publishers. Another has had his second novel accepted, and it will appear first in hardback. A scholarly editor will soon have her own book about meditation published, and another man who had written about corporate ethics was on his third book. Others, I’m sure, were a rejection slip or two away from fulfilling their dream of getting published. The energy in that room was positive, creative and inspiring.

I had come to talk about newspaper writing, to provide pointers for getting published in this blue-collar and ink-stained world of writing in which I toil each day. I call it blue collar because constant deadlines force newspaper journalists to churn out copy regardless of inspiration and without the luxury of endless rewrites. It is the minor leagues of writing, but every now and then a star emerges. I’ve been fortunate enough to work with a few of those, people with skills so acute news stories about town council meetings come to life and sparkle with clarity. I’ve read columns that are both poetic and enlightening, sports stories with flashes of true brilliance.

I wouldn’t quite call a clutch of writers who meet regularly a “support” group, but there are similarities. Anytime one puts a bunch of people together with the same habits, weaknesses and desires, they will find ways to help each other for the simple reason they can relate. I’ve seen it happen with runners, teachers, alcoholics and now writers.

Those who write at any level, like most all brands of art, must go public to succeed. I’m sure there are a small few who find joy in the throes of writing. Others, too reclusive to go public, never show their work. A relative may happen upon drawers of notebooks upon their death, and a great talent is uncovered.

For most, however, the very quiet, very solitary act of writing is only rewarded by public acclimation. Once read, a book or a newspaper column belongs to that reader, and the praise, criticism or indifference will soon follow. There is a certain amount of courage in the act of publishing, for after plumbing the soul’s depths in creation one relies on others to determine success or failure. It can be a devastating gamble.

As I settled behind my computer that night, it was admiration for those writers that I wanted to convey, admiration for those in this writer’s group and those in similar groups anywhere, for artists, musicians and spiritualists who refuse to be quiet about their passions. Strong are those who can both hear their heart and heed its call.

(McLeod can be reached at info@smokymountainnews.com)

 

Back to Top
The Smoky Mountain News