The trouble with college writing
groups is that they tend to get off topic. This proved to be the case with the
Quentinville Quills, the renowned Quentinville University writing group, which
met in a small room in the university’s cavernous library on the third Thursday
of every month. It was facilitated by the head librarian, Ellesmera Jane, an
eternal optimist who remained upbeat even in the face of the ever more obvious
insanity running rampant among the young writers who showed up faithfully,
notebooks clutched in their arms and ridiculous personalities clashing as soon
as they tumbled through the door.
As the motley group found seats
on one particular Thursday, chatting, laughing, and occasionally bickering in
the process, Ellesmera stood by the doorway, trying to coax passing students
into joining the group. After her initial attempts proved unsuccessful, the
librarian switched tactics and began ambushing unsuspecting passersby, hauling
them in by their ears and smiling sweetly as she tossed them into empty chairs.
When everyone was settled and Ellesmera had locked the door in order to keep
the most recent captives – that is, members – from escaping, the librarian took
her seat at the head of the table and asked if anyone had brought something to
read.
“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves
first?” queried a tall young woman with canary yellow pigtails and an ink
smudge on her cheek. “There are some people here who aren’t our regulars,” she
added, eyeing the students who were glancing at the door somewhat desperately. Ellesmera
thought this was an excellent idea, and the yellow-haired girl began the round
of introductions.
“Hello! I’m Rachel, a junior majoring
in writing. I’ve been part of the Quentinville Quills since I started here.”
The introductions continued with Zelda, Serendipity, and Hazelwood Lee,
triplets whose long hair, bright eyeshadow, and patchwork skirts identified
them as the resident hippies (all regulars). There was also Sylvester, a young
man dressed in an old black suit coat and white dress shirt; Willard, a tall,
lanky, and taciturn man who perched in a corner, rarely speaking; Zachariah Zebediah
Zeeman III, who had such miniscule handwriting he had to carry around a magnifying
glass in order to decipher it; and finally Charlie, who had the appearance of
someone who had recently been electrocuted, his hair sticking out in all
directions, eyes wide, and sporting a perennially dazed expression.
“Delighted to meet you all,”
Ellesmera said cheerfully. “It’s nice to have such a large group. This is
rather unusual!” The students who had been dragged in against their will
exchanged looks of incredulity but remained silent. As Ellesmera waited
expectantly, Willard stood up and began, with no prelude, to read in a dolorous
baritone:
“How my heart walloweth in
tremulous depths of woe,
For you dwell with the angels and
you shall never bestow your grace to me,
a mere mortal.
Whilst I linger in agony your
world turns just the same.
You are a planet, and I your
moon,
drawn in by your gravity,
caught in a separate orbit,
never able to cross your path, forever
apart.
Lost in the winding torment of my
own soul
until you deign to grace me with
your smile.”
Upon finishing, Willard abruptly
sat down and did not utter another word for the rest of the afternoon.
Ellesmera nodded politely and commented that it was a lovely piece, which
everyone except Willard understood to mean, “I have no idea what any of that
gibberish meant, but I commend you for putting pen to paper in an attempt to
write.”
Deciding that some prose was in
order, Serendipity cleared her throat, rustled her papers, and announced that
she would read the first part of her fan fiction involving several characters
from obscure British dramas. It was elaborate, eloquent, and so convoluted that
by the end no one was exactly sure who had been shipped with whom, what canons
had been involved, or whether in fact any pirates had made an appearance.
Zelda, who was not much for creative
writing as she despised the frivolity, false reality, and, in her opinion,
idiocy of the style, made it a habit of writing scathing reviews of her
sister’s work. She especially despised anything to do with fandoms, and
therefore, focused most of her energy on tearing Serendipity’s writing to
pieces. Therefore, with the aid of many years of practice to assist her speedy
drafting, Zelda had finished a scathing review of Serendipity’s fan fiction by
the time the last line had been read. She cheerfully and loudly proclaimed to
the group all of her criticisms, and then sat down, satisfied with her
contribution.
At this point, Charlie, still
looking somewhat dazed and confused, stood up with a crackle of electricity and
offered to read his most recent story in an attempt to bring the meeting to
happier ground. He described in impressive detail the destruction of the world
in the near future by an alien race of zombies. Meanwhile, off to the side,
Serendipity had accidentally-on-purpose spilled a thermos of boiling tea on
Zelda, who was too busy trying to recover from the first-degree burns to pay
much attention to Charlie’s delightful tale. Ellesmera, used to this turn of
events, calmly handed over the burn cream and bandages she kept in her purse
for occasions such as these.
Sylvester, having admired
Serendipity for the length of the meeting, took this opportunity to lean over
and tell her how, although he did not care for writing at all, he absolutely
loved working out. He began to regale her with an in-depth explanation of the
various exercises he preferred, undeterred by the glazed look on her face. When
he mentioned that he was allergic to soy and was therefore unable to drink most
of the protein shakes that otherwise might help him build muscle, Serendipity
nonchalantly made a note of this fact. Unfortunately, Sylvester had never heard
the advice that it is a bad idea to tell a woman what can kill you if you are
aggravating her.
Hazelwood Lee, ignoring her
sisters as she was used to their antagonism, timidly asked if the group would
like to hear a few chapters from her novella. The few people who were still
paying attention at this point nodded encouragingly, and were rather shocked
when the story turned out to be an incredibly sarcastic memoir from the
perspective of a serial killer. After Hazelwood Lee finished reading, Ellesmera
complimented her on the vivid imaginativeness of piece and asked what her
inspiration had been. An uneasy silence fell over the group when Hazelwood
blithely replied that she tried to base all of her writing on personal
experience.
At that point, Ellesmera decided
the meeting should be adjourned, and opened the floor up for one last piece to
be shared. Rachel, the yellow-haired writing major, volunteered to recite a
limerick she had just written. Sitting up straight in her chair, she exclaimed:
“There once was a girl named
Monday
Who loved a boy named Sunday.
They were set to be married
Until Sunday was buried
Before they could go on their
way.”
Ellesmera – in fact, all of the
regulars – were used to Rachel’s tragic stories, and so she received several
compliments as she grinned in appreciation. Zachariah Zebediah Zeeman III pointed
out that limericks were, by their very nature, supposed to be upbeat, but he
was silenced by a warning look from Ellesmera and – when he ignored that – a
swift kick from Willard.
Ellesmera graciously thanked
everyone for attending, reminded them that the next meeting would be held on
the third Thursday of the following month, and unlocked the door so she could
send her unruly writers on their merry – or not so merry – way. Smiling to herself as the students exited the
room, some running and some wandering, Ellesmera returned to her normal work day.
She had always thought it was nice to have such a lively group of writers on
campus, and she was proud to be the facilitator of the Quentinville Quills.
As you read the prose and poetry in the following
“pages,” understand that these sensitive and insightful submissions are not the
work of professionals. They’re by people a lot like you. We hope you’ll
consider sharing your own work in our fall 2013 issue. All you have to do is
e-mail your text, photographs, scanned images, or video links to ffitzgerald@madonna.edu.
