Tonight I went to a reading by a group of local writers. Yesterday, when I fled Woodridge in search of some peace and quiet, I went first to the State Library of Pennsylvania for a renewal of my borrowing privileges, lapsed since my last round of research back in 1996. Then I went to the Cornerstone Coffeehouse in Camp Hill, a quiet suburb on the West Shore where I’d lived from the time I was sixteen until I was through college. I ordered a cup of yogi tea and took my notebook to a back table for one of those “writing in cafes” sessions so enthusiastically recommended by all the writing gurus.

Although it’s written up in all the “guides to cool places” published periodically around here, The Cornerstone is fairly new. Nothing like this existed in the area back when I lived in Camp Hill, and such places were, for me, the stuff of literary legends and black and white movies about writers (like The L-Shaped Room, a 1963 English flick which earned Leslie Caron an Academy Award nomination).

The Cornerstone brings to mind “Central Perk,” the place depicted on NBC’s Friends, only not quite so spacious nor so full of good-looking twenty-somethings. There is one couch and a single computer with an open internet connection over in the corner behind the door, about a dozen tables, and stools ranged along a counter that looks out on the street. The fare consists of a wide selection of plain and flavored coffees, lattes and espresso, all the Torani syrup flavors for Italian sodas, pastries all day and bagels until about 12:30. In addition, there’s the requisite bulletin board in the corridor leading to the restrooms with business cards from holistic healers and massage therapists, alternative band posters, and announcements of literary and art happenings.

Tonight there was a reading by members of the Imprint Writers’ Workshop, a group which began as an outgrowth of poet T.H.S. Wallace’s creative writing classes at Harrisburg Area Community College. They have recently brought out an anthology called Voices from the Peace Tree and are now on a tour of readings at libraries and coffeehouses designed to promote the book and their work.

The title of the anthology derives from the name given to this region by the Five Nations of the Iroquois, the indigenous peoples who first inhabited this land and established peace along the banks of the Susquehanna River. On a map, the river appears to have a main stem which runs from the Chesapeake Bay north past Lancaster, York, Harrisburg and Sunbury, where it splits into the west and north branches which arc northwest and northeast into New York state. Along these branches are hundreds of small tributaries which finger into the mountains, giving the appearance of a vast and graceful tree.

Seven people read. They are all quite ordinary citizens, and none makes a living solely as an artist, although Wallace has taught creative writing for many years and has ten books on his list of published works. Among the others are a man who
works for the state Department of Public Welfare, a woman who is a city police officer, several almost empty-nesters and a man who became a father again after his first two children were nearly grown. Most appear to have come to writing late.

The Cornerstone is both smoke and alcohol free, so it lacks the traditional ambiance of 1960s comedy clubs and beatnik cafes. But because not everyone was there to attend the reading, there was a certain level of background noise produced by conversations, the whoosh of the cappuccino machine, clinking of glasses and change, and the pinging of the video game somebody had up on the computer.

The readers sat on the couch and at the two tables in front of it. Somebody’s wife had a plastic tub full of copies of the new book. I bought one.

I liked what I heard, for the most part. I’m not an auditory learner, and I find it difficult sometimes to follow the development of something that is being read to me, especially if it was prepared as a piece to be read by an individual rather than a speech to be delivered to many listeners. I didn’t want to use the anthology to read along, mostly because I was sitting beside the stage area and the lights had been dimmed there.

The content of the prose pieces especially seemed to evaporate out of my consciousness before I’d reached the resolution. Some of the poems seemed to be one or two drafts away from being really really strong -- too many adjectives, some of them in redundant pairs.

I could sense the camaraderie and support among the group members. Even so, they seemed to be reading for their whole audience and not just for each other. (Cliquishness can spring up quickly in groups like this, especially groups that have been together a long time. I saw evidence of it at the January workshop in New Jersey.)

I need a group like this. In 1994 and 1995 I was part of a local writers’ workshop
sponsored by the public library. Led by a local poet of modest talent, it really didn’t meet my needs. There was no structure at all -- “read and rave sessions,” I called them, where a writer would read a piece and everyone would say “ooh” and “ahh” and the leader would tell you where the misspelled words were and where the commas should go. 

The leader had certain prejudices and strong dislikes (such as sentimental memoir), and since a lot of folks writing this kind of thing were beginning writers whose craft was quite undeveloped, the criticism could become hurtful and personal. The leader liked me, and generally praised my work, which didn’t help me improve my craft. I did make a good friend there, however, one whose work I respect and with whom I continue to share manuscripts.

I once submitted a proposal to this library to lead my own group in memoir writing. I was told quite pointedly that they already had one writers’ workshop and didn’t need another. I thought that in a city of a hundred thousand there might be sufficient interest for another group, especially one with a specific focus, but I felt quite discouraged and didn’t pursue the matter.

Novelist Elizabeth Berg, in her book Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True, suggests that an apprentice writer seek out five different writing classes or workshop groups in his or her city. There aren’t that many around here -- I’ve checked. The two seminars at nearby Dickinson College (one in poetry, one in fiction) are so popular that there is rarely room for non-credit students such as I. The class Terry Wallace teaches at HACC also fills quickly and is probably too basic for my needs.

When I screw my courage to the sticking post, I shall write to him about the Imprint group. I might even have to start thinking about forming my own.