Writing Groups: When Strangers Become Friends

On an especially frigid winter night, seven near-strangers—with the exception of one married couple—sat quietly around a hearth, the anticipation crackling almost as loudly as the burning embers.

Debra Scott cleared her throat.

“Welcome,” she said, gesturing around her candlelit living room in Springs. “Let’s get started.”

Her guests came from near and far. Their interests covered a broad spectrum. Superficially, they had nothing in common. But they were all writers—and, with that, an inherent trust and comfort filled the room.

“I do this writing workshop sporadically,” Ms. Scott explained before the session started. “The winter’s a good time for people to really get down and do what they want to do—writing-wise.”

Across the East End, writing groups and workshops are in high demand, and local authors and coaches are rising to meet it—from the numerous writing groups at libraries and community centers, conducted in both English and Spanish, to sessions at private residences, such as Ms. Scott’s, where, in her words, she has rounded up an “interesting cast of characters.”

There was documentary filmmaker Grania Brolin, an active member of the Southampton Town Democratic Committee who recently found herself in Cuba. To her left sat Laura Euler, editor of Curbed Hamptons, who is navigating her way through an emotional divorce.

Published authors Keith Barker and Lynn Matsuoka, also a furniture designer and an artist, respectively, sat close together, passing affectionate gazes between them. Actor and painter Michelle Murphy Strada lounged in an oversized chaise, a purring cat at her feet. And temporary transplant Nikki LaBranche, by way of Massachusetts, rounded out the circle, eager to discuss her ideas for a health and wellness book series.

After each writer had his or her turn, Ms. Scott and the group offered constructive criticism—“I can be a little bitchy sometimes, sorry,” she conceded—and gave pointers, from working on scenes and dialogue to simply understanding the premise of their stories, which is no easy task.

But, by far, the most prevalent issue was novel versus memoir.

“You can distance yourself from the truth a little bit by making it into a novel, if that is appealing to you,” Ms. Scott explained to Ms. Euler. “Maybe you want to make your protagonist somewhat different from you. Maybe she …”

“Finds a hot boyfriend?” Ms. Euler suggested, a faint smile teasing at her lips before she burst into giggles.

“That’s too easy,” Ms. Matsuoka laughed.

For Ms. Murphy Strada, her memoir—a story about the rise and fall of a show business family—worked.

“Can I stop you there?” Ms. Scott asked, interrupting the author’s reading.

“Sure,” Ms. Murphy Strada said.

“I think it’s fabulous,” Ms. Scott said.

“Really?!” the writer gasped. “I don’t have to read any more, then. I’ll go home now.” The group laughed.

“There’s feeling in the words,” Ms. Scott said, continuing her critique. “It’s nostalgic. We’re feeling the nostalgia, through you. But I’d like you to let us know, slowly, about you.”

Ms. Murphy Strada nodded thoughtfully and took down a note on iPhone as Ms. Scott moved to Mr. Barker, who read from his murder-mystery in progress, and Ms. Matsuoka, who was struggling between penning a memoir, or a novel.

Ms. Scott’s advice was blunt. “I don’t care about most people’s stories,” she said. “If you tell me you’re writing a memoir, I’m, like, ‘Who are you? Did you b--w Mick Jagger? If so … You know what I mean. Unfortunately, or fortunately, people don’t want to read your memoir unless you have something pretty exciting. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ll tell people to turn your memoir into a novel. Not in your case.”

Ms. Murphy Strada smiled shyly. “If I can do it right.”

“You can do it,” Ms. Scott encouraged. “It’s just, if you do it. That goes for all of you. Keep writing.”

The group quieted down again. It was all the time they had for that night. The embers died down, the cozy room cooled and, almost three hours later, the six friends each said goodbye to Ms. Scott, and headed back into the cold.