GIRL TALK

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Girlfriends are major necessities in the lives of women. Women by our very nature and the way our brains work need to talk. Express our emotions. We must explain how we feel. Even if we have to go over and over and over the same territory. Our need to re-play in slow emotion is comforting to us, but it drives our husbands, or lovers, up the proverbial wall. And what is a wall? Silent. Hence girlfriends.

We women writers also need to talk about our lives, children, grandchildren, hurts, delights, and whatever else comes to mind. Yes, even shoes. But when we talk about our work it’s different. Once the girl-friendship status is secured (that means we actually like each other and respect each other’s work) we talk about our writing with all the clarity and intensity of an ax murderer, the dark humor of a Sisyphus (But at least we have the rock.), and the passion for what we create.

This was made clear to me one morning when I met Gayle, a close writer friend, for coffee at Barnes & Noble. There were other women sitting at tables talking and laughing over their coffee. When we sat down I heard the words, boyfriend, mother, career, and boyfriend, float from their lips.

Gayle and I are very different writers. I do not like to talk my story out. It dissipates when I do. I think the reason for this is that all plots have been told. And when I hear it out loud the triteness of it grates on my ear like a talentless child playing the violin. It’s what the writer does with these oft told plots that makes them unique. It’s not until I have it down on paper and in my own voice that I can call the plot and story mine. Then I can talk about it. But Gayle thrives on the tossing around of ideas and plots. This day I have my story written. So we enter each other’s created world, while acknowledging the other’s eccentricities, and begin to converse and dissect.

And suddenly we are no longer in Barnes & Noble. We are running from a well-read artful assassin in London; or we are in Hollywood with Diana Poole while she untangles the deadly love of a mistress, wife and husband. Our personal lives have vanished. Our own loves, struggles, and worries are gone. We are in each other imaginations, but always with our own constructive critical eye. Two hours later Gayle and I return to reality. I look around the store. The women who were chatting about boyfriends, mothers, and careers have left.

“How odd it must be for someone to hear us talking,” Gayle, says. “I mean we’re not talking like most women.”

We grin at each other. A rare sub-group of the formidable female friendship.

As we are leaving a few people stray in with that how-did-I-get-into-a-bookstore look on their face. They head for the magazine rack. I sigh and look longingly at the mystery section. Its lone isle is empty except for the books on the shelves. But, like old Sisyphus, at least I have my rock to push up the hill.