For some, it's a sequel; for others a new chapter
Ralph Hohman, Record-Journal staff

For some, it's asequel; for others anew chapter Arts council officer holds creative writing workshop MERIDEN - Writing is a strange compulsion. Some people hate to write, but love to have written. For others, the process itself is a kind of communion. It can be a touchy subject. Support feels good; criticism, not so much. One night last week at the Augusta Curtis Cultural Center, Jean Anne Wertz said her goal was to help the students in her creative writing workshop get better at their craft - "whatever that means to you." Wertz, and former editor at the Record-Journal and current vice president of the Meriden Arts Council, is pursuing a master of fine arts degree at Goddard College in Vermont

She's written drama and poetry, and her "Pot of Soup or the Tragedy of the Commons," is a semifinalist in a 10-minute play competition at the Secret Rose Theatre in North Hollywood, Calif., where it will be performed in October. "I want everybody to feel safe here," Wertz told her class at the Curtis Center. "I want you to be able to take risks and try things that you haven't tried before." If they wanted to read something they'd written and get feedback from others in the class, they could do that, she said. If they want no feedback - just an ear to bounce ideas off, they could have that, too. And they could consider themselves writers, even if they didn't have outside validation. "From my perspective," Wertz said, "a writer is someone who writes." The class is a mix of ages and occupations. Some of the writers have been published. Some are trying to find their voice. Ben James, 19, said he's taking a semester off after attending Emerson College in Boston, trying to plan his next step. "I went for writing and I got a major writer's block, because it's so competitive," he said. The class at the Curtis Center is a step back toward writing, although James said he doesn't think he would major in it again. He also didn't know, coming into Wednesday night's class, whether he wanted to commit to the workshop. Ken Cowing is 83, and writes occasional articles for The People's Press. He's taking the course for a second time. "Last year I learned a great deal, and I'm still learning," Cowing said. "The first apprehension you have is when other people look at your work, (but) it's not sharp criticism. They ask questions - they're learning at the same time." Forty-two-year-old Jo Anne Grabinski runs a business in South Meriden as a professional organizer. She's got an idea about developing a couple of characters and a story line around her profession. "I figured if I wanted to write a book, I need some help," she said. The class is at its capacity of eight students, who paid $80 (for Curtis Center members) or $95 each for six two-hour, Wednesday night sessions. On opening night, everyone grabbed a button out of a big can, and used it as a starting point for a story. What kind of garment had it come from? Who wore it? What was their life like? Then everyone read his or her piece. "I was amazed at everyone's different style, everyone's different perception of what writing means to them," said 58-year-old Jane Earnest, who works for the Meriden Department of Parks and Public Works and is a workshop member. Earnest has written speeches and eulogies. She often writes for her job or city events that she's part of, and has had commentary printed in the Record-Journal. There's enough seriousness in her life, she said. She Please see Writing /8 ˆ€ Writing workshop likes to write funny things. "I've been writing since I was in first grade," when her classroom story about wearing loafers as a way to avoid learning how to tie her shoes got a good reception, she said. In the class, she took her turn like everyone else, before all the buttons were rounded up and put back in the can ("I think there's a book in this can," Wertz said). In Earnest's story, the button comes from a perfect pair of khaki shorts worn by a young woman whose idea of perfection is a life of shorts, sand and water. "It's got a lot of potential," she said of the workshop. "I think I can learn from it." James, in whose story the button belonged to a clown, said he's decided to stay on for the full six weeks. Grabinski, too, said there was something practical here she could use. She might have been anxious about reading her story out loud, but said afterward, "I think I held my own."