I don’t talk to other writers about writing.
I have, in the past, but eventually concluded that I had no desire to do the things that those writers liked to do. Like, writing exercises.
“Write 800 words describing the texture of an orange,” was one challenge. “Write 5 pages a day,” was another.
I can see how the thousands of similar exercises are helpful for many writers. Not me.
I can’t force myself to write. When words flow, they flow unimpeded until they end, hour after hour, and then nothing for a while.
I write the way I write. I subconsciously analyze everything I read, which continually inlluence my writing. I avoid reading while working on a novel. I hermit away in a quiet place and let it flow. Although, I frequently jot down ideas.
I haven’t found anything to like about “Writer’s Circle” nights at t he local pub or coffee house. Please, don’t interpret this as condemnation of these energetic folks. I’m just not a fit for their group.
I don’t concern myself with offending people with my writing. If I did, I’d never be able to write another word. It doesn’t matter how innocuous I believe my words to be, I presume that someone will take offense.
“The Earth is round.” See, I just offended the afrdent followers of the Flat Earth Society, about 25% of the population, at last look.
Maybe I’d become a “better” writer if I joined in the reindeer games.
We will never know.