The London Writer's Salon as an Emergent Strategy

An Ode to What is Growing in the Cracks of This Time

It's 8:22 am, Tuesday, November 29th on the colonized, unceded, traditional territory of the Puyallup Tribe of Indians (aka Tacoma, Washington). I am sitting at my desk, keying into my laptop with 166 others who have zoomed into this emergent strategy, The London Writer's Salon. Why emergent strategy? It is something that has emerged in this time that represents a new way, a transformation of the old paradigms, an attempt at cultural democracy, and a strategy for coping with isolation. Not just the isolation caused by the virus, but the one that can sometimes plague artists and writers who must incubate ideas, images and phrases without distractions. Here we are in the café with dozens, all holding each other accountable, even if we are scrolling elsewhere, even if we are answering email, or paying bills, we have set up this structure in which to commit to a sentence, a paragraph, a title, a task, or a poem.

We are folks who heard about this phenomena, a free place to sit and write with others, at some point during the Pandemic. We arrived here with questions about the efficacy of this form, while open and curious to find out more. Why would this screen-based discipline offer us more than our determination to find time to write? Was our need to see each others working on screen or off a healthy manifestation of the desire for community, or was it a sign of our unhealthy addiction to screen-based life?

After the newness wore off, I had to encounter my own particular pushes and pulls. What was wrong with me that I needed this kind of fix twice a day? Was this a "lonely hearts club" dressed up as a writing salon? Is this what the world has become, a grid of rectangles with names and head shots? Do I belong here? Why do I get distracted after writing two or three sentences and end up in Crackbook or some other bull shit? Why am I so distractible? What does taking breaks on IG offer my muses or my creative flow? I really don't know.

I went into rebellion mode for a month or so and said, I don't need to show up on screens at particular times. It's another unhealthy addiction and a distraction from finding my own rhythm. It's not supporting my work, especially the writing of this book that has been on my plate for two years now. It's also keeping me away from the studio, and it's interrupting my flow, but some small voice in the back of my head brought me back. I can't track now why or what happened, although it may have been B-Z's stage 4 cancer diagnosis and the need to commit to something that was unrelated to his healing. I returned to LWS and made a deeper commitment by subscribing for the many perks that you have access to once you sign up at the Bronze, Silver or Gold levels. I was tentative about this at first, and signed up at a lower level of cost, but at some point, I heard two of the founders (affectionately referred to as Ma & Pa) give a talk about what inspired them to create this space and how they were expanding it. I recognized them as co-visionaries, working to shift the way that art practices are nourished in this time. So I made the big commitment and signed up for Gold so I could get more specific support. I said to myself, "this is how the book will emerge."

The recognition that LWS is an alternative learning community that I can be part of, but don't have to facilitate, is profound. I've had a habit of initiating alternative ways of teaching, alternative ways of being an artist, and subverting within the mainstream. But the ability to sit back and enjoy the safety and nurturance of this space has been very freeing. I have no obligation to be here, and I choose to be here.

The strengths of this community became even more palpable once I joined the Cabin and Cafe spaces during the worst weekend of B-Z's chemo treatments. I discovered in the intimacy of those spaces a totally unexpected form of support. I was joined off and on by a small group writers I did not know at first, who were zooming in from Australia, India, Ireland, Canada, and England. In the Cabin we wrote in silence exchanging welcomes and encouragement in the chat. In the Café, we took breaks every hour for 5-10 minutes and shared small pieces of our day/night (we were coming from different time zones), took breaks to run errands, stretch, rest, and eat. We sometimes mentioned in passing some of our struggles, triumphs, and writing rituals. I was able to delight in the music of foreign accents, and feel lifted out of my "stuck at home" syndrome.

More recently, I was matched with a pod of two writers, both elder feminist writers, so we can share our work together twice a month. I was fascinated by how differently we are navigating our writing, but was delighted by our mutual desire to dismantle patriarchal systems as they manifest in our worlds. I also joined some topically related writing groups, including one that focuses on ecological issues, one that creates space for BIPOC writers, and a third that is for folks writing memoirs. We will see whether these groups will feed me, or provide unnecessary distraction.

Is there a shadow side to LWS? I haven't found much of one as yet, aside from my own inner judgments circling around my process. I sometimes glance at faces and names in the grid of rectangles and wonder about the lives behind the screen. I can project all sorts of things when my imagination is ripe, inventing characters for a piece of speculative fiction or a work of critical realism. Given my tendency to distraction, I try not to go there. Sometimes I do get caught up in judgments about the plethora of writing about what seems trivial to me, such as fan fiction or mystery novels, and I start wishing that more folks were focused on what I see as the really important issues of the time, like climate and racial justice, and the incredible speed of change we're experiencing right now. I have to speak to that judge-y part of myself and tell her to bugger off. We need all the voices, the ones that speak to play, joy, and whimsy are essential medicine for many.

In the small, break out groups and mingles, or when people speak in the larger writing salon, I discover bits and pieces about the folks who gather at LWS. There's one thing that's consistent: people are carrying a lot, although they don't typically share these things at first meeting. Once you've met someone a few times, you may learn about the grief, isolation, life long trauma, chronic health issues, job scarcity, housing instability, and lots of fears and worries that inhabit their worlds. I have rarely heard that people are writing about these things, but I'm sure there are; I just haven't met those people yet. What I have heard, are welcoming, curious, and supportive voices, people who are eager to connect and share what they are working on and what their struggles are, and that gives me great pleasure for this Zoom format and medium.

No matter what, getting up to join the 8 am Pacific hour session and making space for other sessions in my calendar, keeps me grounded, even on days when I've barely slept. Thanks to LWS, I feel a deeper commitment to my inner writer and can push myself through various blocks in my creative life, and I know my book will be born, even if it's a slow and cautious birth through my Substack essays.

To be respectful of my co-writers' privacy, I have altered the screen shot.