STACKS: The Writing Group and Zine

Once upon a time (i.e., 2012), I started a writing group called STACKS in my hometown of Scranton, PA (yes, of The Office fame). I wanted to be a published author, you see, and I wanted to connect with other creative writers. This appeared difficult to do in the cultural mecca that is a burnt-out coal town, but I figured that if I was there, others like me could also be there. I was gonna find ’em!

Exposition

The idea came about on a beautiful, boring day in March while I meandered downtown with my camera. I sought to take pics of interesting windows to use when creating a cover for Across the Way, a short erotic e-read I published under a pseudonym. (It’s since been criticized for being creepy and hasn’t aged well, or maybe it was never in vogue. I realize I have some responsibility as a writer/artist, but I never wrote this story to express how the world does or should work!)

Anyway, I wandered by the cafe, Northern Light, and spotted my pal/fellow wordsmith, Buck Mulligan, sitting out front reading Ulysses and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. I sat across from him, he gave me the rest of his cig. We bounced from topic to topic until we eventually agreed we should start our own fiction-based writing group during the summer. Buck suggested that we also have a culminating group project of a zine, an idea I loved.

It was exciting, the concept of writing with people, having a reciprocal interest in and familiarity with each other’s work, and being encouraged to write something new. I saw nothing but blue skies from behind my rose-colored glasses, which makes no sense and I don’t care!

Rising Action

Buck and I met again at the cafe in May to dish about our plans for the writing group. He was amused I brought an agenda with an attendance list of two people. I like my fun to be organized! We made several decisions but couldn’t land on a name, although we kept getting hung up on STACKS. (Me: “Do you envision that being in all caps?” Buck: (pause, then) “Yes.”) This name idea stemmed from him saying his personal insignia was “Do Not Stack,” and I noted how libraries have “stacks.” Other ideas—like “The Pencils” and “Scribbles”—sounded like children’s writing groups.

We never moved past STACKS, so with a name in place, I got industrious! Buck and I distributed flyers about the writing group during a First Friday in June, and then I contacted a few local papers so they could add the first meetup to their event calendars. One weekly even reached out to us to conduct an interview! I was super nervous, but ultimately thrilled about the resulting article, which made it sound like Buck and I were dating (e.g., “met in high school and recently reconnected,” “her partner-in-crime, Buck…”). Maybe that’s just me…?

(Although, Buck told me that during his phone interview, the journalist asked him if we were involved romantically, and he said he started laughing. Then he added, “You don’t understand. Ours is like the most innocent friendship. We met while making pirate movies, gambling for trinkets, and playing Bikini Snow Tag.” That has to go in the STACKS biography. And now it has!

Climax

The first STACKS meetup at the since-closed pub called The Banshee was quite successful; there were seven of us present (including three guys named Chris—chances are if you called a dude “Chris” that night, you’d be right), and others who had expressed interest but couldn’t make it. We all clicked and I felt confident we were on the right track.

However, drama surfaced with the arrival of a forty-one-year-old stranger in mesh shorts whom we’ll call Devon. Devon showed up forty-five minutes into the meeting after, bewilderingly, driving two and a half hours to be there (?!). I don’t recall his intro, but it was such a bad, noisy first impression that he literally left the bar and came back ten seconds later to reintroduce himself all over again like it never happened. This is not an exaggeration!

Following this big entrance, he almost got into a fight with a guy at the bar who didn’t like his shirt. Then he returned with a shot and a beer to rage about his dead military dad who had scoffed at his “sissy” writing in journals growing up. Now, he said, he went home every night to angrily look at his dad’s badges and patches. Are you getting all this?

It got worse when Buck joked about French Canadians judging him so he didn’t like French Canadians. Devon must’ve been French Canadian because he then flipped out. He insulted Buck’s bowtie, refused to let Buck respond to his accusations of being a fake, and grabbed Buck’s favorite book out of his hand and threw it on the floor. In retrospect, we likely should’ve nipped all this in the bud right then, but I don’t think any of us fully registered what was happening.

I tried to steer the meetup back to the matter at hand, but Devon continued interrupting with his loud tangents. He was also adamant about turning STACKS into a “production group” that would invoke “competitive writing” between Bloomsburg and Scranton and put on plays. We’re like, “We don’t act, we don’t write plays, that’s not why we’re here.” He seemed dismayed, which was nice. Hopefully, he thought we were losers and would never come back.

The meetup concluded, Devon left, and Buck—naturally—fumed. The good news was that it bonded the rest of us. Maybe the guy did more for the group than if it had gone normally and without incident! Afterward, I crafted a polite but firm email to Devon that made it clear we didn’t want him to come back. I don’t recall if I actually sent it, but we never saw or heard him again after that. It takes all kinds, gang!

Falling Action

At STACKS meetups, we gave feedback on works in progress and did writing prompts for fun. Sometimes the prompts were light-hearted (“Create your own conspiracy theory”) and others were more thought-provoking. For example, “Imagine you’re with your seven-year-old or seventy-year-old self. What would you do together? What would you say? Is there any advice you would give or hope to hear?” (We were all a little quiet and stirred after that one.)

And you’d never know who would walk through the door. (Exhibit A: Devon.) On one occasion, an orange-haired, sixty-four-year-old woman wearing a cross necklace and other baubles wandered in, looking for us. This woman—Carleen—saw us in the paper and thought we were a songwriting group. She then sat down and told us she was a lyricist who struggled to find committed musicians to work with so she could take the country-gospel songs to Nashville. Then she got into how Jesus saved her. Still, reading steamy books inspired her to go out into the world and find someone who could make her feel that passion. (“There’s nothing worse than a wantin’ woman,” she said.)

I had high hopes for growing STACKS. One idea was creating a STACKS blog, where everyone could post their short stuff and excerpts while still saving some writing for the STACKS zine. I also saw the merits of starting a writing group for teenagers.

I saw a future for STACKS and was meeting interesting people. However, the group was not helping me as a writer. This wasn’t the fault of anyone but myself. I wrote nothing new, and picking pieces to share with the group proved difficult. Major revisions seemed obvious to me, thus it seemed pointless to have anyone else waste their time reviewing it.

All this made me wonder, “Is writing still my thing?” I felt like it was. I figured I was just going through a phase and wanting to try other stuff for a while, like Produce High. On some level, I knew that was okay. However, I feared that if I didn’t keep going, I’d never become a better writer. If I didn’t keep going, I might never come back.

Now why was that scary? What if I went on to do or create something even better? Wouldn’t it be worth it to take that risk? To be frank, I was afraid of changing.

Denouement

By December, we met regularly every Tuesday at 6:30 PM at the Morning Glory Café. (It has since permanently shuttered.) In retrospect, a writing group meeting every single week seems too frequent, but we had enthusiastic regulars by then.

Still, STACKS ran on borrowed time. Buck planned to move to Pittsburgh and I was burned out on writing. There was another writing group (the Northeastern Pennsylvania Writers Collective) that met on Saturday and would absorb the other writers in the group. All signs pointed to the rapidly nearing end.

Therefore, we prioritized publishing the zine—our unspoken finish line, our final goal. We had everyone design their own pages and planned to include our collaborative Exquisite Corpse game in the zine. (We took turns writing a paragraph of a story, then passing the paragraph to the next person, who passed their paragraph to the following person, and on and on. Then, when it’s done, we see how it all began, how it came together, and if it’s cohesive. And if it’s not, that’s fine. That’s funny.)

We printed the STACKS zine in January 2013 before Buck moved away, and it turned out really well. It made me miss making my zine, Pure Morning (2003–2006). I popped by some places downtown to drop off free copies, including Northern Light, where it all began.

And when all the copies were gone, I thought, “That was easy.” It was oddly easy to put a zine together and then share it with others. Nothing stopped me from doing so. Furthermore, I woke up to an email the next day from a guy who found the zine at the cafe. He was excited about it and planned to review it on his blog. That was just so neat. Why hadn’t I been doing this all along?

The End

Though the STACKS writing group was short-lived, I think of it as a success on many levels. It was fun getting together with and encouraging other writers. We met cool, creative people; we got interviewed by the paper; and we made a zine as we intended. I contributed to the artistic health of an area that, when I lived there, felt like a creative wasteland. I do take pride in that.

Furthermore, it was easy to make happen. All we had to do was want it and put in the work. We didn’t have to get anyone’s blessing (aside from the meetup locations). And people were receptive! So if you see a void or lack in your community, creative or otherwise, see about filling it yourself. Make where you live the place you want to be.

(And be prepared for wackiness! Sure, there may be some Devons, but you’ll get your share of Carleens too.)