We started off as strangers, the five of us. I still remember the first time I noticed the one who sat in the round blue chair. I must confess she scared me a little, not because she was scary, but because she reminded me of the woman I used to work for who made me feel smaller than I already felt, while I pushed her goddamned words around the page.
It wasn’t long before the woman in the round blue chair starting flashing bits of wicked humor, jolting loose all my preconceptions. I came to look forward to every little jewel she offered up in that luminous way she had of turning pain into pleasure.
One of the women wrote and wrote and wrote about her abusive father, and one gagged on memories of her rusted silver spoon. One had stories deeper than she was capable of reaching with her insufficient pen but still, we listened. Me, I was just there to heed my mother’s constant call to write, write, you’re a writer, you should write.
The five of us shared our stories like prayers, recited over the crackling flames of creativity that dissolved our differences into one deep breath.