TypewriterLast week I found out I earned a coveted spot in an advanced writing and critique group here in sunny San Diego. I submitted an application several months ago, between boyfriends and in one of those “just get out of the house” modes. They accepted me, and I was third or fourth on a waiting list for one of the eight spots.

She wrote over the weekend, and my first meeting is today.

Uh oh. Now what?

For writing groups, I’ve written mostly literary fiction. I write dark little short stories with unhappy endings that reveal the futility of life. I published a handful here and there, and I think I’ve grossed perhaps a total of $85 in my fiction-writing life.

Literary fiction doesn’t sell well. I can’t make a living by writing short stories. I’ve got an idea for a fiction mystery series, and those types of models will sell well. But I am embarrassed to bring my pop fiction to this kind of group.

Don’t get me wrong… I love literary fiction. I’m excited that I was chosen, and I love to learn from writers whose talents exceed mine. I love to be pushed. And I’m looking forward to meeting some fellow writers. I made lifelong friends at my last writing group in Philadelphia. But I’m questioning the wisdom of my giving up every Tuesday afternoon to pursue a project that may not further my career.

Oh well. I’m in. Wish me luck.

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