writers’ groups

Tuesday Tiny Tale -Writing Exercise

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The Ham Hub writers had decided to have something new to focus on, an exercise for fun, creating a fictional community. Each writer to bring along two or three characters and let them interact with each other. The setting to be remote and rural, between the wars so they would have no mobile phones or ready means of communicating with the outside world.

Charlotte enjoyed the task, a break from writing her novel about Lottie. She tried not to make it anything like Hambourne, though she couldn’t resist adding water. When it was suggested she go first she thought that would be easy, her plot could not clash with anyone else’s if they had not been revealed.

Ellie decided to take the towpath back to the farm, relishing the peace and freedom before returning to all her chores at home. Ellie was happy to volunteer to take newly laid eggs and milk to old Widow Brown in her tumbledown cottage. Mother said they had to be nice to her as she had lost both her sons in the war. It had been a busy morning as she had also taken a hearty breakfast to Tommy One Arm in the barn. Her father took pity on any tramps who had been soldiers in the war, especially those maimed or disfigured and unlikely to find work. Father called them all Tommy; there had been One-Eyed Tommy, he was a bit scary till you got used to him. Tommy One Leg had been a joker and popular locally as he could fix anything. Tommy One Arm was very quiet except when he was having a funny turn, which Father said was shell shock. He wore a hat and scarf all the time, only Mother and Father had seen his face properly as Tommy was very good at reading the difficult dusty old books that had been great grandfather’s. He read to their parents after the children were all in bed. Ellie hoped this Tommy would stay. Father never made them move on, but they often got restless and there would come a morning when the barn was empty. Ellie felt sorry for this Tommy, he wouldn’t be able to get married if he had to keep his face covered all the time and he didn’t seem to have any relatives to go and live with.

It was such a lovely morning Ellie skipped along the tow path…

‘Hang on, is that by the river or a canal?’

I don’t know, that’s why I just put tow path.

…thinking how good it was to be fourteen and never have to go to school again. She had not thought beyond leaving, though of course her parents had. Going to work as a maid at a big house far away

‘Hang on, in mine, it’s The Big House nearby so the characters can be tenant farmers.’

‘and have somewhere to work’ added someone else.

Okay, no problem, at the Big House nearby or to be a shop girl in town…

‘What town, thought they were isolated.’

That’s why she doesn’t want to work in town, too far away.

…were suggested, but she did not want to leave home and why should she when her big brother stayed on the farm. She had quickly found out that working at home was a lot harder than school. Helping her mother with the endless cooking and looking after the little ones, feeding the pigs and hens and milking the cows. But Father had promised her she could take the pony and trap to market. She loved Lucky the best in the family. He was called Lucky because he had been a colt when the war came and was not taken away to go to France. Ellie and Lucky had grown up together.

As Ellie wandered along picking spring flowers and watching out for the Kingfisher she was startled to hear a man’s voice.

‘I thought we were setting it in winter?’

‘No, it was autumn.’

‘It was definitely spring as it is spring now, we’ll be in the right mood’ Charlotte decided to be a bit assertive for a change.

‘Morning Miss.’

She looked up to see a young man standing on the bow of a colourful narrow boat. A new boat at the old mooring that hadn’t been used for years. Ellie knew all the river folk and he was definitely a stranger, so she was not sure if she should talk to him.

‘Thought you didn’t know if it was a river or canal?’

Well spotted, easy to change and we have to hear everyone’s story before we set details.

His smile crinkled up to his dark eyes and he had gleaming white teeth. If her father saw that mop of curly black hair he would have him sent off to the barbers or got her mother to get her clippers out, like she did with her brothers. He was taller than her big brother.

‘Oh I like him, watch out Ellie, my girl will be after him.’

‘This is a pretty sight on a spring morning.’

Ellie looked around to see what the pretty sight was.

‘Oh yes, this is the prettiest part of the river.’

‘That’s why I decided to moor up here yesterday evening and what a surprise to meet a pretty local girl so soon.’

Ellie looked around to see if a pretty girl had appeared

‘May I ask your name? I’m Jack, Jack of all trades.’

‘Hey, I’ve got a Jack.’

‘So have I, head gardener at the big house.’

‘And I’ve got a Tommy, who seduces the scullery maid.’

‘How long since the First World War War then, still got old soldiers wandering? ‘

‘Great War, they didn’t know there was going to be a second one.’

‘1928 I thought we said last week.‘

‘No, it’s going to be in the middle of the Great Depression’

‘When was that then?’

Do you go to a writing group? Do you enjoy doing exercises?

Thursday Tiny Tale – 2053

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Charlotte was beginning to regret joining the new Hambourne Happy Creatives group. As a newcomer to the pretty town it had seemed the obvious group to join to keep her energised in her rocky writing career. She was eager to write a more cheery novel than her last and hoped Hambourne would inspire her to write about her new heroine, a recently widowed writer who moves to a country town for peace and quiet, but finds herself investigating a murder.

If she had been a local she would have known to keep Robert Falstaff at arm’s length. To Charlotte, at first, he was a charming man who had advice to freely offer, from dealing with computer problems to publishing and promotion. His apparent connections to television had her fantasising about a Sunday evening cosy drama.

Now, at this evening’s meeting, she found herself at the centre of attention, with her languishing novel ‘2053’ the topic of a discussion led by Robert. The other members were kindly in their questions, but she felt herself and the novel horribly exposed.

‘What made you choose the title, or that year Charlotte?’

‘I wanted it to be in the future, but still in a time frame when I could conceivably still be alive. How was I to know when I was writing it that all the events would come true by 2022!’

‘You could change the year, or perhaps call it The Covid Chronicles.’

‘Oh dear no, does anyone want to read novels about Covid?’

‘Hmm, I am writing a novel about Covid and the horror it brought to a town like Hambourne’ said a tight lipped woman.

‘Well, the novel is out there, published on Amazon,’ said Robert with an expression of disdain ‘so let’s concentrate on how Charlotte could do much better with promotion.’

‘Um, I was hoping to have a stall at your arts festival…’

‘Internationally I mean.’

‘I do have my blog and quite a few followers from every continent, except Antarctica.’

Robert scrolled down his iPad, Charlotte shuddered to see the familiar sky blue background of Thinking Through. Was her poor little blog to be exposed to ridicule?

‘Oh yes, I am thinking of starting a blog’ said a timid lady Charlotte immediately warmed to.

‘Silly Saturday, Silly Sunday, Monday Madness, Tuesday Tiny Tales, Wordless Wednesday, Thursday Trifles and Fun Friday’ sneered Robert. ‘Charlotte dear, you are not exactly coming across as a serious author.’

It’s a long time since I visited Hambourne and I wondered what had been going on there since 2013. You can read the Hambourne Chronicles in Hallows and Heretics.

Friday Flash Fiction – 600 – Nom de Plume

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sunshine-blogger

 

Busy weekend away helping Sally’s aunt and uncle move house; we stopped for dinner at the motorway services on the way back. I still hadn’t written a word for my new writers’ group on Monday evening. Sally just laughed.

‘Rob, it’s not school, just tell them you didn’t have time, though you could write a whole book about this weekend.’

‘Yes… and if it got published would your aunt and uncle recognise themselves?’

‘Not if you changed the names.’

She continued leafing through some free magazine she had picked up, then pushed it to my side of the table.

‘Look, there’s a short story at the back, maybe you will get one of your short stories in a magazine one day.’

‘I am hoping to aim a little higher than some rubbish free magazine.’

I flicked back through the pages; there was actually an article written by a dog, looking for forever homes for his pals.

Lots of licks, Barney.

‘Oh please, spare me… ‘

‘Read the story Rob, maybe it’s good.’

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Protest

by Angelique Dubarry

 It started with a bumble bee and ended with the saving of a whale; thousands of signatures on the petition protesting to Sea Worlds in the USA for keeping Killer Whales in captivity. Saving The World from my computer was simple and addictive, till the day the door bell rang…

Hmm, it was quite a good story, our topic was The Internet – Good or Evil? Sally was busy playing with her phone, I slipped the magazine into my man bag. Nobody in my writers’ group would lower themselves to read this trashy magazine. What did Sally say about changing the names? No one would possibly know I had borrowed the story.

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On Monday evening there was a good turn out and it was a while before my turn. I read clearly and confidently, I was enjoying myself.

…till the day the door bell rang. I thought they were Mormons, two smart young men in suits.

‘Good morning Ma’am… Mrs Katherine Jones?… how are you today?’

I was taken aback they knew my name, but they were so polite and so American I stepped back and they stepped forward, into my house. On closer inspection their black badges did not mention Latter Day Saints and what they were saying did not make sense. ‘… home security…’

I thought they were selling burglar alarms; then they homed in to the extension where we keep the computer. Now their slick talking seemed to include the words ‘national security’.

I realised, when it was too late, I should not have offered them a cup of tea. When I was at the sink filling the kettle they disappeared, with the computer…

I looked up, the room was eerily silent, either they were totally absorbed, or they did not like my story. I stuttered, but managed to get to the end.

  ‘…but I don’t understand sergeant, what I have done wrong?’ I stammered.

 ‘Let’s hope your ‘38 degree’ friends can get you a good solicitor, one who will explain the extradition process.’

The tight lipped silence continued, I noticed the retired lady’s face reddening.

‘It’s okay Ruth, I’ll handle this’ said Giles, self appointed leader of the group. ‘Is this your own work Rob, or have you some explaining to do?’

How was I to know that Ruth Brown used Angelique Dubarry as her nom de plume? How was I to know that everybody recognised the story, because it had been short listed for the prestigious local arts festival competition last year.

 

 

 

 

 

The Right Writers

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‘So you’re going to go into a room full of strangers and read a piece of your writing to them?’ said Cyberspouse, aghast, with no idea of what I would read.

‘I guess it’s like Alcoholics Anonymous’ I replied.

I had found a phone number in the local arts directory; at last we were living somewhere that actually had an arts directory. The only piece of new writing I possessed was the article written for the local newspaper’s annual competition be a journalist for a day. It was titled The Oldest Profession in the World, which actually referred to being a stay at home mother. The tutor at the writing group said The Echo probably was not ready for my sense of humour and little wonder I was not one of the five chosen for a week of guest reporters.

The group met weekly except for a summer and Christmas break and at each meeting we read our work and handed it in for a short written critique to be received the following week; a simple formula that spurred me on to start writing short stories. This is the group I still go to, same tutor, a few of us who have belonged for over a decade and lots of interesting characters who have come and gone for a variety of reasons including final departures. Along the way it was suggested I try a novel…

There have been other groups I have tried, looking to broaden my outlook and find out more about publishing. One group met in a coffee shop; the other writers were varied and interesting, but the woman who ran it spent a lot of time talking about herself, the coffee shop was noisy and she expected us to give her £5 for the privilege.

A good while ago a creative hub was started very near to where I live, the altruistic landlords charging a peppercorn rent. I imagined meeting all sorts of creative people, perhaps somebody with their own publishing company – all writers can dream. The woman who ran this group read her own work, which wasn’t very good, then one day decamped from the hub, taking half the group with her and telling one of the remainers she could run it. We carried on and we’re still going, a tiny core of enduring members. Along the way we were thrown out of the original building when the admin person’s ‘issues’ came to the fore, met at each other’s houses, then disbanded and reformed at the library to be rid of an obnoxious member. We have had some very strange people over the years, some only coming once or coming too often. But there have been good writers we were sorry to lose.

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One of my local writer friends has never set foot in a group and prefers to stay home writing; he has written a lot of books. But most writers seem to enjoy meeting others; it is energising and a good way to get feedback.

Some groups produce their own anthologies and run competitions, alas not ours. There is so much great writing I have heard and novels unfinished that I was looking forward to reading; proof indeed how important it is to preserve your writing, self publish or print and keep it safe, but don’t abandon it.

We all belong to a big global writing group, WordPress and other on line worlds, but do you find it helpful to meet up with real people locally at groups and conferences, or do you avoid them like the plague?

Most of my short stories were inspired by topics given at writers’ group. I have published four collections of  short fiction.

 

TIMES AND TIDES

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Do you like short stories, do you read them or write them? Do you listen to them at writing groups, story slams in the pub or on BBC Radio 4? Short stories are of a more useful size than novels to pop in or drop in, but perhaps you prefer the journey and involvement of a novel.

I have to confess that in between school and starting at a writing group, my short story activity was confined to listening on Radio 4 while feeding babies or doing the housework. But we have so much fun at writers’ group listening  to stories as good as any on the radio and as I have just published my third collection of short stories you will guess I love writing them.

But what should a short story do; answer a question, satisfy us with a neat ending or leave us completely in the lurch? A short story can produce an interesting or dramatic dilemma without having to worry what happens in the long run. In my latest collection of 25 stories you will find cosy endings, dire results or the fate of characters may be left to your imagination. Buy for £1.99 on Amazon Kindle and decide if you dare read them.