We’ve had a lot of sangria at this point. I myself am working on my fourth glass, and that after downing quite quickly the remnants of the Sofia Coppola Riesling that Colin and I opened for brunch.
It is, once again, our Sunday writing group. We’ve spent the last two years together—gaining and losing a few members along the way—changing our format until we evolved into a sort of pot luck dinner party/writing time/sharing time model.
I cannot tell you how good this writing group has been for me. For one, it ensures that I do actually write something every so often. For another, it has been instrumental in helping me keep my house clean on a regular basis (like my students, I need deadlines, or I have difficulty keeping up with the work). For a third, and probably most significantly, these people have very quickly become a social group I rely on—and will sorely miss when we dissolve away (slowly, I expect, as most things do).
At some point in the last few months, Taylor started bringing jugs of Carlo Rossi Sangria to our group. Tonight we went through the first one so quickly that Colin, thoughtful, loving man that he is, went and got another (four liters!).
As a result, we are now delightfully giggly, and when the cat wandered in a particular way across the living room, Tracy fell into such laughter that the rest of us followed and it was a long time until order was restored.
I suppose I am feeling nostalgic. Two of our six members will be leaving at the end of next month. April is moving to Ohio; the idea of having her Skype in to our writing group next year has been brought up at least twice tonight. Tracy got a job in Phoenix, but seemed to seriously consider driving down here to attend. (A three hour round trip for a three hour writing group with these folks? Totally justifiable.)
If we continue next year (and it seems we will, even if missing a member or two), things will have to evolve. As all things do.
Change is good, often good. And so I will try not to be too sad that so many of my friends seem to be leaving, are finding jobs elsewhere, some as far as half the world away. My time will come soon enough, I guess, and there’s always the internet, purveyor of long-distance friendships the world over.
So here’s a glass raised to writing, to friendships, to sangria, to our last or next to last night spent, as this group, the way things are now, typing away together in comfortable, slightly tipsy, almost sacred silence.