I have a very fragile teacup and saucer that is milky white, but so translucent that if held up to light it looks pale blue.  Someone might not even give it a second glance because, after all, it is just a white cup.  Yet to me it is extremely valuable.  Because it came in a burlap bag of flour, during the depression years.  Each time a person bought a fifty-pound bag of flour or sugar, a piece of this china was inside.  And slowly, my great-grandparents collected a set of china that way.  This cup is all that remains.  So where is its value?  In the story connected to it.

I tell stories about things that happened to me, or mischief I got into as a child, or the even greater mischief my siblings got into (hope they’re reading this!) and the stories invariably have the listeners rolling with laughter.  My husband says I should write the stories down.  I hesitate because what makes them so funny is the act of speaking.  I believe a lot of the humor would be lost if the voice was gone.  Although, in thinking about it,  there are those who write pieces that make me laugh out loud, like Patrick McManus.  So maybe you can write something where the humor translates, but I’ve never given it a try.  I think some of the magic would be lost even though I’m a writer.

On a similar note a woman years ago joined my writer’s group tentatively, feeling she had no right to be there because she was an oral storyteller.  Actually she is a painter, who goes to elementary schools and paints watercolors while telling a story to go along with it, and involving the kids in a visual as well as an oral story.  It didn’t take long to convince her she belonged.

All of that makes me pause and reflect on the value of story, rather than the venue.  A story is something so beautiful, and I feel it doesn’t lose its beauty because it’s spoken rather than read.  After all, writers simply carry on the traditions of oral storytelling. We are bards with pens and pencils rather than a mind that holds history in tales.  We all know oral storytelling came first.  But it is still just as important, and has just as important a place in our lives as the written story.

Pay attention as you move through the day, to how many stories you tell with your voice.  If someone asks you what you did this past weekend, I doubt you can simply say, ‘My friends and I walked up the old logging road.’  I bet there’s a story attached.

Just last night, during a conversation about missing homework, I told my son (in a very frustrated tone of voice) to just sit his butt down in a chair and do the work.  Just get it done.  Quit procrastinating, quit finding excuses, and just work.  A few hours later I was sitting in front of my new laptop, playing Mah Johng, and not writing.  And I had to cringe when my voice echoed inside my head, reminding me of what I’d told the fifteen year old.  Isn’t it easy to give advice?  When it comes to writing, it’s also impossible to follow that same advice.

It shouldn’t be that hard right now.  I’m not working on anything new.  I’m not struggling to create a character or send a plot soaring, or trying to get that dialog just right.  Instead I’m reworking a story I wrote years ago, as I’ve mentioned earlier.  I’m having fun reading it again.  I’m having fun cutting and pasting and swapping things around and even deleting things.  I’m meeting much stronger characters, and even some new ones who should have been in the story to begin with but were obviously hiding in the shadows.  All in all it’s much less work when compared to the first time around.  And yet I’m procrastinating and looking for things to delay the moment when I have to step into that world again.  Why?

Well, once it’s done I might have to come up with something new.  That’s a terrifying thought.  What if there isn’t anything new?  I know that’s a common fear of writers, but still, the possibility looms.  What if I’m just wasting my time and this rework won’t be any better than the first time around?  Or worse, what if I’m just filling time?  So many ‘what if’s’. 

The other odd thing is that once I finally sit down and start working, I slide right into that alternate universe and leave this one behind and fall in love all over again with writing.  I have fun, I get lost in the story, and I’m happy with what I’ve done with it when I finish.  Which makes me wonder even more why it’s so hard to start. 

It’s all just weird, plain and simple.  Guess it’s time to follow my advice.

I’ve been facilitating a writer’s group for several years now.  There is a core group that attends faithfully, and it has been fantastic to share their voyages.  Some have become published authors, some have been able to open up about very personal journaling, and some are just having a lot of fun writing.  The thing that has been hard for me though, is keeping their interest.

A few years ago when it felt like everyone was getting bored, I stirred them up by having the group sponsor a writing event for a local grade school.  It was a huge amount of work and a lot of fun.  More recently, when I could feel the group slowing down, I contacted author Jessica Page Morrell and asked her to give us a class.  We opened it up to enough people to pay for her expenses, but kept it small enough that we got some fantastic one-on-one time with a talented writing instructor. 

I asked the members to give me suggestions about how they would like the group to go.  I got back responses such as wanting more critique time, and an online group.  I changed the agenda to include more time to present, and started a Facebook group, that only a couple of members use.  And yet, in spite of the lack of response, everyone keeps coming back, and they all seem to be having fun.  They get along so well that we have to be careful not to digress into an hour-long visit that has nothing to do with writing.  So maybe I’m worrying about them being bored for no reason.  I guess if they were really unhappy they wouldn’t keep coming back. 

What I fear, what this boils down to, is that the group will turn into a meeting where you know exactly what is going to happen, and when.  That before they even arrive, the members will know exactly who is going to say what and who will be talking about what. 

So what do you do to counter boredom or, even more dangerous to the health of a writer’s group, complacency?