The Chamber

By Keith Fisher

Have you ever noticed we tend to repeat ourselves as we get older? I was reading through past blogs and decided I must be getting old. I found repeated advice, even whole concepts, being introduced as if they were new and undoubtedly patting myself on the back for coming up with it.

This will be my eighty-fifth blog posted here. Since I came later, others have posted more, but I’m proud of what I’ve written. More than that, I’m grateful for the chance to post here and to all of you for reading. In her blog this week, Nichole wrote about the camaraderie of the AI writers group. Her blog caused me to think about how much help I get from the great writers who write here. Since I keep an edit file of all my blogs, I compared some of them with what was posted. I could see how much help I have received. I want to say thank you.

Like Nichole, and many of you, I’ve been caught up in the promise of spring. With another set of conferences and workshops, the excitement is thrilling. The anticipation of meeting with my fellow writers makes me think about starting a critique group. Not just any group but The Chamber. Did somebody hear an ominous echo when I said that? Let’s try it again: The Chamberrrrr. Hmmm, interesting.

Anyway, my vision includes a circular room lined with bookcases that are filled with books of every genre. There are two lockable doors built into the bookcases, and in the center of the room, a circle of five or six, overstuffed leather chairs surrounding a circular glass table. Each person in the group is given XX amount of minutes to read part of their manuscript or talk about a story question or problem they are having. After which, the rest of the group can make helpful suggestions.

The group would meet weekly for XX amount of time, then have the traditional milk and cookies (or vegetable tray for the healthy minded). We would become much wiser, better writers than when we entered the chamber. There’s that echo again.

I was in Deseret Book in South Orem, Utah the other day and sat in one of their overstuffed, leather armchairs. I felt as if I’d died and gone to heaven. I could’ve stayed there all day reading, writing and enjoying life. When it was time to leave, I had to be pulled out of the chair. That is the kind of chair of which I speak.

If I had such a chamberrrr (there’s that echo again). I would never leave. I’d write till all my projects were complete and my group would help me get them right. I would be "the man of the published pages". Hmm, no echo. Either way it would be fun getting together with other crazy . . . eccentric people who also hear character voices in their heads.