I got some writing done on Sunday. I'm pretty sure the chapter is finished. I spent a lot of time in thought, instead of writing. Thinking about the comments made at Saturday's meeting.
One of the other presenters sent me a little note saying she was overwhelmed by the critique of her MS. I was glad she shared that with me.
The problem with going to a writers' group, IMHO, is that you present parts of your work. It's really a piecemeal type of arrangement. In the group I belong to, I present usually every other month. The critiquers, I'm pretty sure, forget what's gone before. I get frustrated when they ask, why did so and so do this, and what happened here. Most times, what they're asking was explained in the chapter before.
The same is true of the questions. Is so and so going to do this? Are we going to see why so and so is going here instead of there? Things like that drive me mad, for IMHO again, that's why you keep reading, to find out the answer to those questions.
The poor woman who wrote to me had the same experience. She hinted at things and the critiquers wanted to know what was going to happen next and why, etc. That's the mystique of the tale. That's the joy of writing.
Sometimes, writers write things that they have no idea what's going to happen next. I understand that. But I've been part of this group for over three years and so has this other woman. Where is the trust that we know what we're doing?
Yet, I must consider their comments. What's the sense of being part of the group if I don't? I just have to swallow and accept and hope I'm doing it right.
I think that might be the crux of the matter. A wee bit of insecurity on my part. *g*
Life is beautiful if uncertain.