By Dennis Finocchiaro

The writers gather in the coffee shop to chat and meet and read at the microphone, but what do they do, they each show the type, the stereotype, that is, the one who is gay and has the supportive same-sex-significant, the one who thinks so highly of himself, as does his publisher, but then, he’s self-published, and chooses the seat most like a throne and expects subjects to surround him as they listen to the older generation poet who obviously spouts Ginsberg-like beat poetry as the young college early twenties gal shakes in her boots awaiting her turn at the microphone, the angry black man has his poetry violently scribbled on a pad of yellow paper and he listens on as the others do to the nice old lady reading and snapping her fingers, the overweight nerd looks through his “masterpieces” full of misspellings bad grammar and impossible-to-follow plot lines thinking that this is it, this is his moment when everyone will notice his absolute talent that every single creative writing professor has marked up with massive amounts of suggestions and edits, and the druggie sits in the back and tries to decide if he will even share what he wrote, even though it’s brilliant and if he ever decided to share it he would be scooped up by the best agent, the best publisher, and everyone else from his writing group the ones who call him druggie and pothead behind his back would be as jealous of his success as they already are of his talent but it will only happen if he dusts off the pot-riddled brain in his skull and shares his work but the nice old lady continues snapping and reading and smiling and fixing her thick glasses and next up is the Woody Allen nerd who actually could capture the imagination and attention of millions if he had the right venue or event, the right break to meet that agent, that publisher, that person who would lift him out of the muck that is this writer’s group but right now the most famous one is the self-published king in his throne, seventeen books out, made and created fully by himself and his ex-wife who may or may not expect a cut of the few books he has sold, all to friends, but it doesn’t matter because tonight is the night, it’s the writer’s night and everyone has met and everyone will tell everyone how wonderful everything they’ve ever done is, none will be honest whether it sucks or is a work of art, they won’t tell the truth because this is a writer’s group and they are all a stereotype and the know it as each takes a moment to look in the mirror in the bathroom and know it, they know they’re a stereotype they know they’re a real, a fake, a writer, a dreamer, or both and eventually each and every one of them will face it, some will reach deserved fame, some won’t at all, and of course others will get that fame regardless of the piss and shit they put on paper, on screen, in book and ebook alike until it’s all over but it’s okay, it’s alright, every single one of them will one day look back on this day, this moment, and know, know they are for real or a fraud. They will know because they already know, they just haven’t faced it yet.