It’s that day again… the day I bake scones, drink coffee with friends and celebrate two wonderful writers whose works cultivated a love for myths in me at an early age. C.S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia, and J.R.R. Tolkien, author of The Lord of the Rings, met on this day over ninety years ago. Shortly thereafter, Tolkien sent Lewis an epic poem he had written. It was filled with lore and myth and the fantastical realm, passions they both shared. Lewis returned the poem several days later with notes, critiques and even suggestions for how Tolkien could make his lines flow better. Can you imagine actually critiquing Tolkien? It sounds almost absurd. But Lewis did, as well as passing along one of his own poems. And so began a small community revolving around this idea of sharing and critiquing one another’s works. You might know them as the Inklings.

But today, instead of talking about the original Inklings, and their vast influence on each other and the countless books birthed through their gatherings, I want to tell you about my own set of Inklings.

In 2016, I moved to Berlin for a 9-month internship. (Yes. Yes. Two years later I’m still here, but that’s another story.) About three months in, I realized the short story that I had been playing around with wasn’t a short story. Much to my great displeasure, it was a novel. I was a little baby writer who had written a mere handful of things. This craft was new to me, and I had no idea what I was doing. To be cliché, I found myself in front of a mountain with no map, no supplies, and no training whatsoever.

By grace, I had moved to a city that embraces artists and I found a writing class targeted toward people who were just starting to write their novels and needed guidance. Oddly specific right? Kate, my teacher was brilliant, wise, experienced and kind. (*Insert shameless plug for the Reader Berlin and Kate who is AMAZING).

We spent the first four weeks learning the basics of novel writing, and the last four weeks reading a chapter of each other’s work and critiquing the pieces in class. Once again, I had no idea what I was doing. My typical response to art had always been “I really liked it” or “this is so beautiful.” And that wasn’t good enough here. It was fine to say those two phrases, but it needed to be followed by a “because…” or a “but…”

I also learned it was okay not to say those two phrases. That is was perfectly fine to look at a writer and politely say, “you know, this wasn’t really my thing. However, I did appreciate when you…” For a half-southern girl raised in the land of buttered words and sugared expressions, being open and honest when I didn’t like something felt like I was slapping someone in the face and kicking them in the stomach once they fell in the dirt.    But then it was my turn to have my piece critiqued, and I realized that critique isn’t a slap in the face at all, but a friend telling me to pick up the pen and try again. Critique can be a loving teacher pointing out what I need to work on and how I could improve. Every single person at that table took time to read my work, think about how it could improve, and share their thoughts with me. They didn’t do this to be cruel, they did this so that one day my dream of seeing Aedaliegh of Arceldör in a bookstore might become reality.

When the course ended, a few of us would meet at coffee shops throughout the city to sit quietly at a table and write together. The next course came and we signed up again, seeking more feedback and more knowledge of writing as a craft. When Kate offered her next course, an entire 10 weeks solely spent reading and critiquing each other’s work, I immediately signed up. This, I was learning, was how I really get my novel to go somewhere. Yes, it was helpful to learn about different styles of narration, using third person verse first person, and so much more. But I found that the critique is what spurred my book to be better. Not just when my own piece was critiqued, but also in the critiquing of others I learned what worked and what didn’t,  to spot a mistake, and even to anticipate what some of the feedback might be and make it better as I was writing the first draft.

Somewhere at the end of the third course, Kate hinted that some of us might be able to do this critique thing on our own. As we walked back to the subway that night, a few of us asked, “Could we really do this? Start our own group? Do we even want to?”

That August, five of us met in a living room and began this process on our own. We didn’t know how long it would last, but we wanted to see where it would go. It’s been hard. We’re all incredibly busy. Some of us have families. Some of us have had to leave the country for three months. I started a new job that makes me get up at 4:30 am on Tuesdays even though writing group last until 10 or 11 pm on Monday nights. We have had to make sacrificed to be in this group. We’re tired. We have little time. But all of us have made our books and this group a priority because we know it is one of the keys to our success.

A few weeks ago, I shared a scene I’d been hiding from this group for nearly two years. I was so nervous they would read this scene, throw the paper across the room and say something like, “What in the world, Bekah! You must be absolutely insane to write something like this.” But after two years with the group, I finally decided I trust them enough to share it. They loved it, which is still the most shocking thing that’s happened. They absolutely loved it and made me promise not to take it out. Then came the “but..” at the end of the chapter with a really sweet and lovely little moment I had written between Aeda and Fryderik. And my girl, Laura, looked at me, and said, “I was shocked because Aeda would never do this. It’s not her at all.”

She was right. It took me a minute to see what she was saying, but it hit me. Aeda would never do what I had her doing at the end of this scene. It went against everything she was. That night, Aeda got a wardrobe change, and all because Laura, over the past two years, has gotten to know my character almost as good as I have. I’ve said it for the last two years and I’ll say it again now…

The secret to creativity is to surround ourselves with a community. We were not made to work in solitude, but to share, to borrow, and to build upon each other.

When I tell people about this group, and what we do, they always say, “Oh, I must be hard to critique someone’s work. I could never do that.” And while that used to be my same opinion, I reply, “It’s not so hard after a while. I love their work, and I want to see them succeed.” And it’s true. I want to buy their books one day. I want them to buy mine. And in order for that to happen, you need more than one set of eyes.

The secret to the Inklings success was each other. C.S. Lewis may have never gotten some of his works published had it not been for Tolkien’s connections and recommendations (not to mention that his Space Trilogy actually started out as a dare from Tolkien.) Tolkien may have never gotten his head out of languages and anthologies long enough to write a plot had it not been for Lewis urging him to write the next chapter so that he could see what happens in the story.

If I ever get Aeda published, it will be because of these women. They have kept me writing when I was tired and wanted to forget Aeda altogether. They have given me ideas when I had no idea where to go. They have given me encouragement and critique. They have helped me see things I never did, and have made turned this lonely task of writing into a story of how I found my people.

I passionately believe that every Artist needs their Inklings. I will never stop proclaiming this. If you’re a lonely artist, you don’t have to be. Join a group. Create a group. Less than two years ago, these five women were strangers from five different parts of the world with three different mother tongues. And yet, two years later, here we are because we showed up, we spent time thinking through each other’s work, and we were honest with one another.

I believe that our success as artists directly correlates to the community around us. Today, I celebrate the five women who sit in a living room with me once a month and make Aeda more lovely, more true, and more captivating than she could ever be with just me.

If you don’t have your Inklings, find them. It will take time, but find them and let them revolutionize your work. They will, I promise.