The organizer
Pulling the chairs together.
My mother taught high school English for thirty years. As far as I could tell, her work was a long and patient campaign to convince ninth through twelfth graders that what they had to say was worth saying, and some of it rubbed off. I majored in English literature at the University of Michigan, and one summer I went to its New England Literature Program on the shores of Alton Bay, New Hampshire. The only requirement was to keep a journal. Between hikes and getting lost in the woods, we read Thoreau and Emerson, Loren Eiseley and Emily Dickinson, and wrote about all of it every day. I remember the relief of it, getting my thoughts down on paper. I have kept a journal ever since, some years better than others.
I have spent most of my working life as a writer and editor. I was a high school extrovert who turned a little introverted, and I still call a few close friends from school. What I have missed is a table, a regular night with men who like to think out loud and try something new. So I am setting one. I will bring the first piece of writing. You bring whatever is on your mind.
Billy