Thursday, September 27, 2012

To write or not to write

Hello, I joined a writer's group! Hurrah!

But I've not had much success with these.

I tried one at a book shop full of 40 somethings, completely terrified of their own writing, and voices - jabbering wrecks. Which isn't a very nice thing to say, but when there's twenty of you, and you're the only one who reads, and the only comment is 'Nice', it's not working.

At the next attempt, they were all too weird. Now, potentially, these are my people. Potentially I'm one of them, an oddball, a misfit. Maybe my internal rejection of the group, is the knowledge that deep down I too, have hygiene issues, intrinsically know how to speak Elvish, and think it's appropriate to bring two babies with me. This is a truly terrifying prospect.

This is my last go at it. I'm totes serious. HILARIOUSLY, and you too, would find this hilarious, I was overjoyed to find that the venue was next to my flat, and then utterly devastated to note that one of the emails on the mailing list belongs to a man who once fired me. Now, my plan is, to make him so uncomfortable, that he leaves.

What do you think?

I mean, I have searched high and low for this. I've been out of University for over four years, without a writing support group to prop up my pitiful sense of being 'a writer', and this could be the one. The one that reinforces my ambition. The one that sparks me off. And we would all become simply the best of friends, and meet up to critique each other's work outside of the group. And from this, a novel would bloom. And then money, lots of money, and - I CAN SMELL IT.

So if all I have to do is turn up crying, address the group, and say that, as a result of being fired some years ago (looking pointedly at man in question), I lost my home (it wasn't a paid job), my integrity, my relationship, and - I don't know - other important, tragic things, like my ability to experience joy - then that's what I'm prepared to do.

Every time he reads something out, I'm going to say it's shit. Even when it's not. Even if could eat Pride and Prejudice or The Great Gatsby for breakfast. And I'll cough through it, and roll my eyes, and feign wrist slitting.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking - will this be enough? I'll let you know.


The prep for the class is to write something silly, fun, and playful.

I'm not being dramatic here, but I currently feel like my soul has been crushed by a falling piano, acid has attacked all of my happy memories, and that one more, tiny bit of stress would see me launching my sobbing body in front of the next Waitrose truck (because if I'm going to die, I'm going to die posh).

I'll email the tutor and say, 'Sorry, couldn't manage that. Instead, here's a rather fetching poem about loss, and suffering, sprinkled with loathing.'

Wish me luck.

No comments:

Post a Comment