Hebrew Melodies

I’ve been going to a local writers’ forum for the past few months. Melissa just joined a few months ago, we try to go as often as possible. We want to learn as much as we can about publishing, looking for ‘experts’ who can help us develop our craft and seeking a venue to release our creative juices.

The forum sucks.

I’m starting to think this writing circle is not much more than a bunch of narcissistic amateurs who are there to hear the sound of their own voice instead of wanting to share their work, people who are more interested in discussing the metaphysical allegories of Shakespeare than how to carry a plot or shape a character. Some of the members have some obvious personality quirks; one member, a man I will call Martin, has some mental health issues. I’m fairly open minded and a relatively inclusive person, disabilities don’t bother me in the least. But there is this awkward silence every time Martin speaks. He will go off on a rant about something, like Hebrew melodies, during a conversation about writing a query letter to a publisher. And when he’s done, the cloud of awkward silence fills the room, and people stare at their pen or fidget with their watch or nervously clear their throat, until someone finally changes the subject. And then it starts again.

Melissa arrived late at the last meeting; Martin arrived even later. They ended up sitting beside each other. He needed a pen to fill in the attendance form, so he grabbed Melissa’s pen. (Remember, he came to a writing workshop, yet is without a pen...) At first, she didn’t mind, but he started scratching out something on the paper and the scratching out became more and more incessant. He wasn’t just scratching out an error on the page, he was trying to eliminate its existence. She looked out of the corner of her eye and the paper was almost worn thru with the scribbles. He put the pen down and drew a deep breath.

He leaned to Melissa. ‘Do you smell gas?’

Her nose crinkled as she bent to sniff his jacket. “No.”

“Are you a smoker? Because if you are, you won’t be able to smell it anyway.”

He went on about an incident earlier in the day that resulted in spilling gas on himself. I didn’t catch the story, I was busy imagining him saving mankind with a Gerry can, a steel drum and copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

“Do you smell gas?” Melissa asked me.

I held my breath and faked a sniff and shook my head.

I made a brief announcement to the group, about an online writing tool that Melissa and I have used, something new and exciting that could really help budding writers, something that I think is the best thing since sliced bread. I might have went on for maybe a minute. Then Martin piped up.

“Well, now for something that might keep us awake....".

I can’t recall what he went on about. All I could think was “I have just been publically dissed by a mental patient". Then I remembered a story I heard about Martin, how he stabbed his wife and did some ‘time’ . I didn’t want to be the paper under that maniacal pen.

We’re looking for a new forum. One that maybe plays Hebrew melodies and not just talks about them.