90 minutes on a Tuesday morning each fortnight. Three pieces of startlingly different fiction from three talented Melbourne writers. The Inner City Writers’ Workshop has a membership of some eight or nine. To join you submit a sample and the existing members are polled. People drift in and out, one year hammered by life and day jobs, another year freer to create. Like all writers, not everyone ships enough product to readily sustain writerly dreams, but my abiding joy within this critique group is the clear and obvious quality of writing.
Critique groups, I’ve seen a few, I can tell you, and inevitably, until now, either the quality or personality aberrations have led me to flee. For me, ICWW is the long haul.