Tonight is the final meeting of our local writers’ club for the “season.” We end the club year with dinner at an Italian restaurant. The evening will begin with the food and then progress to a presentation by the managing editor of the local newspaper, who will talk about interviewing and research for writers. Later, the three winners of a short story contents (including me) will read their stories. Finally, the three winners of the “best first paragraph of a novel” contest (including me) will read their paragraphs.
I understand the summer hiatus, what with vacations and visiting relatives and the like, but that doesn’t mean I like it. Somehow, it seems we’re saying “writing season is over; come back in September when writing will again be an acceptable endeavor.”
Of course, I will not heed the implicit message of the gap; I will write just as I always do. Today, though, I am not writing much. Today, I am observing the end of writing season.
