When I lived in the suburbs after college, as soon as we girls acquired more furniture than a beanbag chair and a rickety stool, we hosted supper clubs. One of the more favorite versions of the supper club was the progressive dinner party in which the festivities move to a different person's apartment for each course of the meal. Once I moved to NYC, I rarely went inside anyone's apartment unless it was the home of one of the few individuals whose living space was larger than an average closet. That is, until I joined an unconventional writing group that operates a bit like the progressive parties of my suburban days.

This writing group meets once a week at a different location; sometimes we meet in the back room of a local bookstore or, if the weather is good, we meet at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, but usually we meet in someone's apartment. We write for an hour or so and then chat and eat some snacks. I think at last count there were about 100 members, but only 15-20 show up at any given meeting, depending on the location. Because of the relaxed nature of the group, you can come every week, not come for three months, not write a word while you're there, or offer to read some of what you've written.

If you've followed this blog at all, you'll know that this arrangement perfectly satisfies the voyeur in me. (See the "Getting to Know You" post.) I get to nose around a stranger's apartment, see what kind of knick-knacks they have and if they leave the toilet seat up. It's also given me the opportunity to check out an 1890s brownstone that maintained the details of its glorious past and a hip Soho loft overlooking Broadway and Houston. Oh, and I get some writing done.

The writing group decided to try a noble experiment: have a meeting while riding on the 7 train. As unconventional as it sounds, I liked the idea of having the subway be the destination rather than the means to the destination. The goal is to board the train at the Times Square station, which is the very first stop, so the entire group can pile into one car. We will then write during the ride out to Queens, and on the return trip, members can read their work if they choose. Of course there will be plenty of other passengers on the train, and I've no doubt that some of us will be the recipient of monetary donations.

This reminded me of Johnny Temple's essay about a subway party, though the goal of a subway party is to drink yourself into a somewhat shaky state, then board the train with a gaggle of your closest friends, and basically harass the rest of the passengers until they leave you with the car to yourself.

Now I don't need utter silence to write. I've often jotted notes or written scenes while riding the subway, but the distractions on the 7 train are too much to handle. Most of the stations are above ground, where you'll find the work of arguably the world's best graffiti artists on display. Also above ground, there are the challenges of relentlessly ringing cell phones and general Saturday afternoon din, never mind the stares of New Yorkers as they watch the nutty people all clacking away on their laptops. Most of these people, I expect, will assume that we are filming some kind of documentary or that they walked into the latest version of Punk'd.

Come to think of it, this situation would not be satisfactory at all. I want to be the one conducting the voyeurism, not the subject of it. I know this is quite unfair. One good turn deserves another. So if you're riding the 7 train and come across a group that seems to be lost in thought, please be a good voyeur and keep your stares surreptitious. That's what I would do.

Jacquelin Cangro

I'm sitting in the campus lan, slightly tipsy at only 11 a.m., thinking about an old friend. It would have been his 22nd birthday today…only he's dead.

"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant" —Robert McCloskey

There comes a time in everyone's life where they feel the incessant need to explain themselves, over and over, until all explanations recede to the background and transform into a gentle hum that, while still there, is easy to ignore. Why? Do we feel guilty for our actions? Do we regret the choice we made? Are we hurt? Do we doubt ourselves?

I used to believe that the world defined us and that we had little say in the boxes that society dumped us in. However, I soon realized that society had nothing on me — I define myself for myself and that is all that should matter. Society may challenge my own definitions, but I always have the last word. Though, it's never easy to stand up, walled to your own beliefs…especially when the army against you is stronger and better armed…especially when the war is against the people who are important to you…especially when all you want to do is pause the battle and explain yourself.

My counselor once told me that explanations were manipulative. I disagree. Sometimes explanations are crucial for communication — misunderstandings occur all the time. It's somewhat the guilty-until-proven-innocent concept. Then again, shouldn't people who you consider to be close to you know you well enough without you having to justify your every hiccup…?

I find myself at the rock bottom of despair — thinking about a dead friend who considered his friends to be the most precious things on Earth and who I neglected; and the other friend, the one who I did everything I could for regardless of me meaning nothing to him and him treating me disrespectfully. I lost both.

Life is short. Why waste time on people that don't care about you? Why keep trying?

I'm sitting here, in my drunken stupor, searching for reasons and explanations to rationalize the choices I have made in my past. Reasons for why I abandoned my friend when he needed me the most. Reasons why I wasn't there when he was dying. Explanations that would somehow make the other friend forgive me so that he would come back into my life…just to let me know, that all the time I had spent on him was not wasted, and that, in some way, he really did care about me.

It's all nonsense really. The truth is that I was a bad friend who spent the last couple of years chasing a prick (mind the language, but there is no other word that would describe him better). So instead, I am going to think up reasons to forgive myself; and the first reason is that I have learned from my mistakes. Now if only I had the ability to know who is worth my time…Sigh. 

Tharuna Devchand

Stress has the tendency of making me nostalgic. At times, it is a coping mechanism that aids procrastination, allowing hours to fly by as I meander through the convoluted domain that remembers the things that I didn't even know I remembered. At other times, it is a source for inspiration, allowing me to search for ideas or hope. Either way, it gets me contemplating about "from where's" and "where to's" and "why now's."

What stood out in my recent delve is how much I have changed. In school, I used to be one of those kids that always fought for what they wanted; that included maintaining a position among the best of the class, grade, or group. I label this high expectation of myself "the youngest child syndrome." With my siblings both over five years older than me, it was a mission to keep up. Nevertheless, as a scholar, I refused to stop trying.

Proof 1:

In grade two, my teacher placed me in the B group for writing (lessons on Nelson Script). I had never been in the B group before and I did not want my first time to be the consequence of an imperfect consonant. My reaction was to cry (a common form of protest for seven-year-olds); I made such a scene that my teacher placed me back into the A group and never chanced any further displacements.

Proof 2:

For a particular Afrikaans test in grade five, my class was given an extra mark for neat work. Expectedly, I was not given an extra mark (not caused by my earlier bribery in grade two). My work was neat, except for a question that was written in fine print to fit my rather verbose answer into the given space. I complained incessantly (without the tears) until I had received the extra mark.

I realized that, as a young child, I did everything I had to to get what I wanted. There were no inhibitions, no hesitations, and no limiting regulations. All that existed was passion and drive; two qualities that I now find myself devoid of.  

It's a hard life for the "artist." Life begins with the lack of acceptance — the being-an-artist-does-not-equate-to-having-a-career argument. In high school I had confessed my dreams of becoming a film director to my guidance teacher, and she replied by saying, "You can have your dreams, but they have to be sensible." What followed was a chain of rejection around the reality of my dream. I fought through for the sake of fighting but, as time passed, the dream faded and lived only as a reaction to the disbelief in its manifestation.

The second obstacle is financing. Equipment, material, labor, and education are expensive, more expensive than the potential income to be received in the initial years of being an artist. Moreover, obtaining experience or part-time employment in the field of choice is never easy (especially in South Africa).

The third bubble-buster is originality. Globalization reveals the multitude of people with the same dreams and goals, which makes it hard to stand out and "be someone." We are all talented individuals, we are all unique, we are all a bunch of wannabes chasing the same shadow. Ideas are re-churned every second, and ideas that you believed to be great usually already exist.

The more you know, the more equipped you are with reasons to give up. With an inbox full of rejection emails, a cash balance that's sitting in the negative numbers, and a notepad bearing no great ideas, it's hard to prevent the death of your confidence in your talents. Your dreams become irrelevant in the real world and soon you are behind that desk that you have always dreaded, working a 9 to 5 in an airless cubicle and stifled by the mundane minds of your fellow co-workers: all for the paycheck.

I find myself here, on the brink of selling my soul for financial security. I have grown from a child who believed that dreams should never be compromised to the skeptic who fails to believe in dreams.

This is why I mention my friend, Rowen, who is trying to break into the world of hip hop. He writes, "You may know me from my history as an MC and a comedian, but I guarantee you there is nothing funny about who I am and what I stand for. I may not have the best style of writing, but I write with passion. I may not have the best voice, but I rap with my heart, soul and my mind. I may not be the biggest guy, but I fight hard. I express myself fully and make no apologies for what I say. I am also a firm believer in evolution, pantheism and naturalism. Due to my beliefs I live the life of a hunter-gatherer in a postmodern society. This is who I am."

His work exhibits the qualities that I have lost, and for that I have a profound amount of respect for him. In fear that his passion will also be trampled by the system, I urge you to check out his stuff and offer suggestions on how he may improve or who he may be able to contact.

Maybe one day I will be as brave as he is and venture out into the vast darkness of the real world to strive for my goals, without turning back.

Tharuna Devchand

You can spot tourists at 100 paces.** And you don't need evidence of a camera or map to do so.

** The thousands of men and women who pile off ships wearing their sailor uniforms during Fleet Week don't count. That's not a challenge at all.

Jacquelin Cangro

In my kitchen —

My favorite part of the day comes right after rubbing my eyes awake and before slipping on a sweater and gathering my things to start the day.

And it's 8:30 a.m. and the sun has just begun to peek past the parking lot and into the kitchen window, warming my hands and the expanse across my feet and and all the way up my legs, as they tingle with aliveness — a window of alertness that seems to escape me for the rest of the day.

I like drinking my coffee alone in the morning in my kitchen because I like the act of being alone — I like the solitary act of waiting for the day to begin.

The pot bubbles up and down creating a wash of impatient sound across the tile floors as my egg bounces up and down inside it.

I pour the water out into the sink, submerging my egg in cold water before taking it carefully and peeling it right over the counter, balanced cautiously on one foot, sprinkling a few flakes over the smooth white surface.

I eat breakfast alone, and always standing, and usually in my underwear, like a victorious warrior on the brink of the day.