If you were to drop in on one of the bi-weekly Friday meetings of the Front Range Writers, you would think you were seeing a gathering of old friends: drinking coffee, eating snacks, and chatting. Then they get down to business.

Each in turn shares a little of what her or his passions have produced since they last met: science fiction, a travel essay, a funny crone novel, a memoir, a mystery, a puppy book, youth and young adult books, or stunning poetry.

The works are diverse but the group is united by a common dedication to the art and craft of writing. They encourage, critique, and inspire each other to refine their work so that readers of all kinds can learn and enjoy.

This website is about this engaging group of writers. There are short biographies for each writer and, in some cases, links to other websites or additional information about them.

Each month or so, a different writer will be featured for recent or special achievements. There's also a news section describing related individual or group activities.

Finally, there is a page to tell you how you can get in touch with these nice folks.         

Enjoy a timely piece by Libby James...

Hope

I've never liked November much. Especially the 11th, Veterans' Day. The day in 1952 when I, a miserable 16- year-old, got hauled into an airplane by my dad and transported from Seattle, Washington, to Philadelphia, PA. Permanently. I truly thought the world had come to an end that day. After flipping from place to place all my life, I'd finally settled in to a spot I could call home. I had friends, knew my way around and had even been elected vice president of the sophomore class at Queen Anne High School. Life was good, as they say. After five years, my dad quit his job at Seattle First National Bank in a fit of anger and couldn't find another one. He liked Seattle too, and to his credit he looked for a solid five months before he decided that if he were to continue to support his wife and three children, he'd need to look outside the area for work. The foreign department at Philadelphia National Bank needed him. Thank goodness, he must have thought, because he needed them.

In the empty seat beside me on the plane sat an enormous black and white panda bear that my beloved friends had given me at a going away party. I cried and hugged that fellow the whole way east. The rest of that year I spent trying to catch up with the advanced level of education I
discovered at Lower Merion High
School in Ardmore, PA, and writing
letters to my friends in Seattle.
Reams of them, I wrote. It
became my hobby. And I
                                                            Continued...