I've joined this writing group at Blackheath Library. Writing is a solitary activity, and I like to put it off: put it off until it's too late. A writing group provides some social discipline. I have to do something to show them. My pride then provides the necessary discipline of doing it early enough to allow for some editing and polishing. At least, that's the theory, and so far it seems to be working. Plus, they're a nice bunch.
This group was brought into being under the auspices of Spread the Word, a London-wide writers' support network. Spread the Word (which I shall call StW from now on) invited us to its 'Write Next Door' Showcase in Stratford, so that we could experience reading our work, and listening to others' work. These were groups from all over east London (StW thinks Blackheath is in east London, a good example of the literary confused with the literal). Blackheath is, of course,in 'Safeaslunun'. But, since, as it turned out, it was represented by a Scottish, an American, and a Yorkshire accent, that hardly mattered.
I read a prose piece which I think has some potential to make a proper story, but was, nonetheless, self-contained and short. So, if it was any good, an audience might think it was, at least, well written, or raised questions in their minds which a longer piece might go on to resolve. That was my idea, anyway. And, if you're going to write, you have to run it up the flagpole, see if anyone salutes: no point otherwise. If you're really, really keen to write, and you're no good at it, best to find out as soon as possible.
Actually, if I'm no good at it, I don't think I'll find out at StW, because they're very supportive. I think they think that people should be allowed to hang around till they've got good at it, however long that takes. Anyway, I shouldn't think they've got a critical firepower sufficient to get through my self-esteem defence system.
This was a proper, stand-up-at-a-microphone-in-the-lights event, so we really had to take it seriously. I got to do my stuff in the first half, so I could have a beer in the interval. I was enjoying this beer in the bar, hoping adulatory groups would swarm around me, asking for autographs, but no such luck. There wasn't even a shy middle-aged lady trying to touch the hem of my garment. Oh, well!
But there was one bit of fulsome praise: a middle-aged chap came up to me (he may just have been going to the bar, and I was standing beside the only gap) and, as our eyes met, he said "I really enjoyed your poem". My poem? By no stretch of the imagination … No, wait a minute, this is praise being handed out here. My imagination couldn't stretch to seeing my piece as poetry, but maybe his could. I nodded non-committally. Then he said "I'm a bit political myself", and I realised he was praising one of the other performers. It wasn't his imagination that was being stretched, it was his eyesight.
I remembered the piece he was talking about. I stood up to deliver my piece, the other chap (it was, at least, a chap) sat down. I only limp slightly, he walked with the aid of a stick. My white hair is faded red, his was faded brown or black. I've got a beard and he doesn't. I've got a Scottish accent and he doesn't! I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.
I bit my index-finger knuckle and spluttered "you bastard, if you're talking to me, can't you find something good to say about my piece? You people are all the same. You come here, you don't pay attention: then you casually demolish a fragile, fledgling ego. YOU MAKE ME SICK! If this is what Spread the Word calls a supportive environment, then they've got a lot to learn. PISS OFF!" No, I didn't: that might have made the evening a lot more interesting, but, in fact I said, in carefully-measured tones, "I think you mean that chap over there".
"Oh," he said, "I'm so sorry, so I do. How silly of me." And that was that.
I wonder if he said it again, this time to the right audience? It would be a shame if he didn't, wouldn't it? Every little helps, and there's no testimonial like an unsolicited one. And it was deserved: I enjoyed the poem as well.
All I got, later, from another performer, was: "you've got a nice voice for that sort of thing". Since we're trying to be writers, that is surely the faintest of faint praise, is it not?
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