The Writing Group

Every other Saturday I go to a Creative Writing class. I've been going for about two months now. I saw the flier in at a cafe window about 2 minutes walk from my flat, one that I'd been meaning to go into since it first opened in Summer, so I decided you know what? I'm going to do this. It was obviously meant to be.

At the end of each class we get set 'homework'. It's optional (though they do stare down their noses if you haven't written anything), and you get given the chance to read out your writing to the group and get constructive feedback.

But... well, it's quite daunting reading your work aloud. I mean, it's not just a group of strangers you're reading to, but a group of writers, some of whom have been writing their whole lives and have very strong opinions of words and syntax and character development, and whether to use comma splices or semi colons. What if they tell you that despite all your best efforts, you're just crap?

Last fortnight we were set the homework to write about 'The Writing Group'. Not about our own writing group, as we may offend someone if we accidentally describe the man who sits near us as having a 'big nose', or another woman as being 'the woman who always smells of cabbage'. We had to create our own fictional writing group, concentrating on describing the characters and bringing their personalities to life.

I had some spare time on my hands when I went to go visit my parents in Essex a few weekends ago, and so I quickly started writing, and below is what I wrote and read out to the class (note; it's unfinished)

Enjoy!

The Writing Group

My eyes scanned the room as I walked in. Sat on three sofas at the back of the cafe was the writing group. I got my notebook out of my bag and walked over to show that I was 'one of them'. A man with thick white hair and a strong beard raised his eyebrows.

"Ah, Emily! Welcome, welcome!" he said, gesturing with his arms open wide. "Come take a seat!" I looked around and spotted a space in between an elderly man and a very petite woman with a bob. She was wearing a smart black dress with kitten heels, and shuffled far over to make more room for me, as if I had a deadly disease and she'd catch it if she was too close.

I could feel the eyes on me as I sat down, placing the notebook on my lap. I too quickly observed the group while Clive carried on talking. There were about ten people, in all. A woman opposite me was scribbling down everything Clive said, nodding her head enthusiastically and laughing at precisely the right moments. She was perched on the very edge of her seat and I was quite worried that if she laughed again she'd end up on the floor.

Clive was talking about the Christmas writing competition coming up, but as I was listening I started regretted being sat where I was. A stale stench swam into my nostrils. I looked around me and spotted the culprit. Despite a roaring fire on the other side of the room, and the front windows fogged up with condensation, the old man to my right was still sat in his khaki Parker jacket, scarf and flat cap. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

"Derek? asked Clive, and the old man to the right of me whipped his head up as if being awakened from a trance, sending the bead of sweat onto my lap. "How did your piece last week go on erm..oh yes, on the alien abduction?"

Derek's eyes glazed over, as if he had no idea what Clive was on about.

"You know," prompted Clive, laughing slightly ,"the one you said last time you'd write after watching the latest episode of Dr Who?"

There was a moments pause. Then a deep rumbling sound echoed from Derek's throat which made the loose skin under his chin wobble. "Eughhh," he croaked, sitting upright, "din't write it. Decided I don't like aliens."

"Ah," said Clive, in a way that made me believe he doesn't like many things. "Not to worry then, I'm sure you'll feel inspired again soon enough." Derek slumped back down in the sofa with a hard thump, sending my pen onto the floor.
"Clive!" came a small voice from the corner, "I wrote a short story last weekend about a dragon, c-can I read it please?" The timid voice had come from a small boy, no older than 9, perched on an armchair to my left. His feet were swinging nervously, too short to reach the floor.

"That'd be lovely Charlie," replied Clive in a hearty, warm voice, sitting back in his chair with a large grin on his face.

 Charlie put his fist to his chest to clear his throat just like he'd seen the grown-ups do on TV, and held out his story in front of him.

"Once upon a time, there was a dragon called Mavis..."

I started jotting down notes as Charlie was reading. 'Good name for a dragon' I wrote, and 'Try to take breaths in between sentences', but a woman on the edge of the group quickly caught my eye. She had her legs crossed tightly and was perched on a very high stool with her back hunched slightly, feeling awkward and being sat so high up.

But it wasn't this that made me notice her, or even her immaculate blonde hair scraped into a high bun on top of her head. It was the fact that she was checking her watch every thirty seconds, as if she didn't want to be there, or had somewhere far better to be. Her pen was twitching nervously against her small notebook, the sort you see Journalists fill with shorthand squiggles, and I soon started wondering if she had to be somewhere urgently for her job. In any case, she was now proving to be quite a distraction, sighing every time her watch showed her that it was getting closer to 8 o'clock. A few other people around the group had also noticed her impatience, glaring at her across the room. Charlie, however, carried on reading.

".. and the Prince and Princess lived happily ever after, "  Charlie finished, with a smug grin plastered on his face. There was a modest clap from the group, and Charlie took a very little bow in his seat.

"Wonderful Charlie!" beamed Clive, "your teacher at school must be very proud of you." He looked briefly at the woman on her stool Lily, what did you think of that piece?"

All heads turned towards the woman on the stool, who quickly stowed away her phone into her pocket. 

"Oh, sorry?" she asked pleasantly, batting her eyelashes. "Oh, his story yes, it was brilliant. Well done Charles." There were a few murmurs of agreement from the group, and Derek to my right mumbled "don't like dragons".


As I read the above piece aloud, everyone was listening intently. I'd been out the night before, and was hoping no one could tell from my slightly husky voice that I'd had a few too many glasses of wine. But nevertheless, my piece went down extremely well, and got nothing but positive remarks, and even got a few laughs from the group - something I don't think any other writer has managed when they've been reading out (N.B a lot of the writers in my group write about death, the fall of humanity and divorce.. quite morbid for a Saturday morning if you ask me, but each to their own...)

And at the end of the class, the woman in charge came over to me and said how she'd 'heard on the grapevine' I was writing and novel. After hearing what it was about, she said it sounds brilliant and wants to put me in touch with some illustrators she knows, and can't wait to read it and help me get it published, which frankly, made me happier than anything has in a long, long time.

Watch this space.