Writers need creativity, comradery . . . and lots of time to write independently. A writers’ group gives you good company, fresh eyes, and a little encouragement when the words just won’t come. Finding your group will help you sharpen your craft, share a few laughs, and discover that sometimes the best stories grow from the wisdom and support of fellow writers.
Here are a couple Minneapolis/St. Paul groups that have been both fun and a help for me. (And you don’t have to be a distinguished–or even published–writer to enjoy these groups!)
Open Writing Group, Northfield, MN:
Contacts: Joan Ennis at jcennisbooks@gmail.com or Torild Homstad at homstad@gmail.com
Two upcoming meetings in 2027, plus our anthology release party!
At our House on the Hill Launch Party, I’ll be reading the first page of my short story:
Rodney and The House on The Hill
I was focused on paddling around the branches of a massive American Elm that had toppled from the eroding riverbank. The tree stretched half-in and half-out of the S-shaped waterway carved through the valley. Low-hanging branches had been known to sweep an unprepared kayaker off their ride and into the wooden strainer, where the current could drag you under faster than you could suck in a dying breath.
Perched high above, a formerly peaked roof drooped in the middle like a tired smile. The house looked over the cut bank, perhaps understanding that it, too, like the tree and the kayaker, may topple into the river someday.
I saw the tree.
Read the water.
Anticipated my move.
Turned, ducked, leaned, and that’s when the canvas sack dangling above the swirling surface caught my eye. The bag had a gaping hole on the bottom and was cinched to a broken branch.
Odd, I thought, just as an arm-sized wooden limb whacked me across the face.
My kayak tipped.
I toppled.
On a good day, I could have screw-rolled and righted the narrow boat, rotating up and out of the water.
This wasn’t a good day.
My inverted kayak was jammed between enormous wooden fingers. I lashed out for something to hold onto, and my fist came back with a canvas bag a single heartbeat before the swirling eddy sucked me to the riverbed. My brain raced.
Feet downstream.
Toes up.
Protect your face.
Fight the urge to inhale.
After what seemed like forever, sunlight…and air.
Caked with mud, muck, and sand, I dragged myself to the shore and flopped face-first on the riverbank, gasping.
That’s when I noticed the gunny sack beside me was writhing. A squirming bulge was taking shape under the wet fabric. Inside, something was inching toward the bag’s torn bottom. I spun and planted my buttocks in a clump of grass and cattails as a pink nose emerged.
A drenched and furry bandit crawled from the opening. It was a sable ferret! He was long, thin, soaked…and curious. The gaping hole in the sack meant the ferret’s littermates, if there had been any, had likely fallen into the river. We were both surprised, wet, and alone.
I took the little guy home.
SouthSide Writers, Eagan, MN.
Two upcoming meetings in 2027.
Contact: Helen Montgomery: hlmontgomery@earthlink.net
If you’re an author, or just like to write, get yourself in a group!
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