A Writer's Tale by Richard Laymon Page A

West Los Angeles, Brentwood, Glendale and Pasadena, Marina del Ray, Echo Park, Hollywood, Northridge, Sherman Oaks, Encino, etc. To reach a meeting, lengthy pilgrimages were often involved fighting through heavy traffic for about an hour.
    Because of the distances and uncertainties about traffic conditions, some people would arrive at the meetings very early, others quite late. The meetings were supposed to begin at 8 p.m.
    Upon arrival, most of us would have our first cocktail. Then we would sip and smoke and wait, talking mostly about writing.
    We never knew how many people might show up. The Pink Tea had a very fluid membership. There were stolid regulars who were serious writers, a few of their nonwriter friends, and occasional visitors (maybe a boyfriend or girlfriend or a writer who wasn’t a regular member). Some of us rarely missed a meeting. Some rarely showed up.
    I’ve been to meetings when there were only two or three people present, and others where there were probably more than twenty. Usually, however, twelve to fifteen people would put in an appearance.
    We all lived in small houses or apartments and hardly had room to seat everyone. By the time the whole crew had shown up, people would often be jammed together on the couch, sitting on folding chairs, sitting on the floor.
    On one memorable occasion at the Matthews’ house, Dan Marlowe was sitting on a “director’s chair” that fell apart , throwing him backward to the floor. He was pretty old at the time, but that didn’t stop us all from laughing our heads off. He wasn’t hurt, and we were mostly a tad drunk. (Most of us were always mostly a tad drunk or more so.) Reading time, though scheduled for 8:00 p.m., would actually occur much later than that (and sometimes not at all). When it seemed that most of us had arrived, someone would announce that it was time to start reading. This was usually Leo Whitaker, a very proper chap with leftward political leanings and a penchant for orderliness.
    After the announcement, we would have to abandon our “shop talk” and hurry off to get refills for our drinks.
    Finally, the meeting would come to order. We would start by taking a rough count of how many people wished to read.
    In the opinion of most of us, the fewer the better.
    Some members never brought material to read. Others would bring things occasionally. A few of us never showed up without a brand new piece to run through the gauntlet. I nearly always brought a fresh story or chapter to the meetings. But I didn’t always ask to read it.
    I would see how many other people were reading, how long it was taking… I didn’t want to be responsible for dragging things out.
    Generally, four or five people might express a desire to offer their material up for sacrifice. In keeping with the informality of the Pink Tea, you could read just about anything to the group.
    If you dared.
    Mostly, people would choose to read a short story or a chapter (or two) from a novel in progress. On rare occasions, someone might read poetry or a play. Jack Matcha sometimes handed out scripts, and different members took roles in his plays.
    I believe there was a general caution to keep your material no longer than about twenty pages. But the rule was sometimes ignored. Time and again, we would be bludgeoned into agony and despair by a seemingly endless story or multiple chapters droning on forever.
    Oddly enough, these adventures in monotony were very rarely interrupted. The group could be harsh, but it could also be compassionate and polite.
    Some of us would read our own stuff to the group. (I always did.) Others would ask someone else to read it. Women frequently got drafted into this job. I recall Carol Law, Patricia Matthews and Marilyn Granbeck often reading not only their own material, but that of various guys who preferred to sit back and listen.
    While each piece was being read aloud, we would sit there sipping our drinks and smoking and listening and trying to