BIRDS OF A FEATHER

            If anyone has ever read my blog (thank you Chris, for always checking it out) you know that one of my daily routines is walking to the beach. I am unbelievably lucky. I live in a slice of paradise, a stone’s throw from the Gulf of Mexico. Today was the best…the air was crisp and cool…the cloudless sky beckoned, so I donned my daughter’s tennis shoes (I said this to see if she reads these) and hiked down the street, through the wetlands to the beach.

This is the good part – there was not another person in sight – no man, no woman, no child, no one, nada – just sand and birds and me. How cool is that!!!

As I walked, sandpipers scurried ahead, pelican skimmed the water, egrets and ibis stood in clusters near the shoreline. Watching these creatures, the saying, “Birds of a feather, flock together,” came to mind. There they stood – a plethora of birds – each in their own group.

It made me think of my experiences in critique groups. I once thought a writer was a writer was a writer. We all searched for that original idea, interviewed our characters to discover their inner workings, struggled for the exact wording, edited, revised. Yes, we were soul mates spending hours of our lives chained to the computer.

Well, at least I thought we were – soul mates, that is - until I entered my first critique group. It was made up of poets, writers of adult fiction, and people writing memoirs.

First the poets. I hate poetry – I don’t get it, pure and simple. But I listened to the musings of the poets. Everyone in the group would ooh and ah. I just sat there – clueless – thinking … what the hell are they saying? I was really out of my league here.

Then came the novelist. Now there’s something I could understand. I read all the time. It was easy to critique something I understood. The stories were interesting, filled with industrial greed, or sex, or intrigue. Very cool.

Then the people writing memoirs. Wow, what courage it takes to write about one’s inner thoughts, life’s experiences, mistakes, triumphs.

           

Then there’s me with my story about a platypus, or a homeless girl, or an uncooperative duck. They all liked what I wrote – they really did – but their critique wasn’t what I needed.

I discovered that they were seagulls, I was a swan. We weren’t birds of a feather.

I went in search of other swans and started my own critique group through the SCBWI.  It isn’t big, but we are tight knit. Everyone understands the nuances of children’s literature. Ideas are shared, manuscripts enhanced, and egos kept in check.

If you aren’t in a critique group, I suggest you find one. You will be tickled you did.