Someone to Hold Your Coat by Liz Flaherty

John Steinbeck wrote a book called The Winter of Our Discontent. In all honesty, I don't think I read it. Steinbeck's writing voice depressed me. I put him and Hemingway and a few others all onto one library shelf of the mind I never approached--it's probably very dusty. Because, although I have always been an avid reader, I have always read purely for entertainment. I am a lightweight. 

But I'm digressing already. Didn't take me long, did it? I brought up the title of Steinbeck's book because that's where I am. Quite seriously, I thought I'd left this kind of angst behind in my teenage years, way, WAY back in the last century. 

I don't want to overdo politics here, other than to say they are the reason I'm where I am. I have never particularly feared being old or even dying--well, being dead; dying might not be fun--and yet now I'm resentful of the next four years of my life being taken up with feeling like I do now. 

Silenced. 

But last night, we had a writers' group meeting. The Black Dog Writers have been around for five years or so, maybe a little more. We meet on the third Tuesday of each month. We share things we've written, indulge in a little cathartic conversation--or a lot--and ... we care about each other. We encourage, we worry, we offer rides, we laugh a bunch. 

We hear each other's voices. Not just what we're saying, but the nuances that slip in between the beginnings and the ends of sentences. 

What several of us read last night had pain splintering between the lines. We had wet eyes sometimes, grieving with one, high-fiving others on stories well told, getting lost in poetry--read that stanza again!

What I read was strictly a free-writing stream of angry consciousness begun at 2:26 PM for a 5:00 meeting. It was inspired by a picture of a house Valerie shared. I read it to my husband and while he liked it okay, I think he worried about me offending people in the group.

My sister used to say that if the guys in her nine-student graduating class had decided they were going to rob a bank, she and the other girls would have held their coats. 

None of us robbed any banks last night, but our friends did indeed hold our coats. I am so grateful.

All of our meetings aren't exercises in catharsis. Sometimes our writing isn't what we wish it was. We don't all always have something to say. But sometimes, it's a couple of hours of gold. Especially when we need that gold. When we are worried ... or silenced ... or unable to find hope in our sad places. 

I hope it gets better for those of us in the same place of discontent. I hope we don't give up, that we don't remain silent, that we remember we have stories to tell and people to care about.

Have a great Thanksgiving. Wishing you happy.