A Writing Room...

A Writing Room of One's Own

David was sitting at the writing desk in his study as he did most Sunday mornings. He sipped his Earl Grey tea from his cup and saucer, and stared out of the window over-looking the large garden. A bird, a robin perhaps, perched on the branch of a nearby tree. David smiled. He had an idea for a new poem. 

David had been writing for years, he took his writing incredibly seriously. He wrote stories, poems and had completed several novels. Over dinner parties, David would regale his friends with readings of new poems and excerpts from his latest masterpiece. He regularly performed at Spoken Word poetry evenings and saw himself as something of a big deal on the Manchester poetry scene. He would often appear as guest host for events. His name alone would bring the crowds in for the evening. Writing, literature, words, were his art, the things he lived for. 

He would do most of his writing on his laptop at the coffee-shop in town. David explained to his wife that he enjoyed the experience of writing in coffee-shops as it gave him a glimpse of the world that he was trying to capture in his writing. I have to be out there, in the trenches, as it were, he would tell her. He had to admit that he enjoyed the curious glances from the other customers. Seeing the well-known local figure working on his latest composition, in their vicinity, had to be an impressive sight for them.

David attended a writer’s group one evening a week. The writing group was led by a well-meaning woman called Steph. David considered Steph to be a good leader despite not having the greatest literary mind. For Steph the evenings were more of a social evening rather than a literary event. David would have preferred to run the group instead, but he went along each week, to read his work and enjoy the praise that followed. He hoped eventually to set up a group of his own, having made contacts at Steph’s group. His evenings would be an altogether more high-brow, more literary affair. He would hold his evenings on a different night of the week and therefore not compete with Steph’s little group, he wasn’t a monster, after all. 

Tina dashed down the busy pavement, walking as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a full-on sprint. Her eyes were fixed on the bus idling at the stop. Hold on, please, she said under her breath. She couldn’t be late for the writing group, not again. Every week she set off with the best of intentions, and every week she was late. Public transport was just a nightmare. The buses seemed to arrive at random times, completely ignoring the timetable, and once the first bus had arrived late, that meant she would miss the connecting second bus. 

Thankfully the bus did not pull away just as she reached the stop. That had happened so many times in the past. Tina wondered if the drivers were given special training to time their departures just as a possible passenger was rushing alongside the bus. Tina thanked the driver and scanned her weekly pass. As she found a free seat, she hoped she fared as luckily with the connecting bus from the Trafford Centre. 

Tina was in her twenties with a young child. She worked several part time jobs around child-care. In any spare moment she worked on her short stories. She typed them up on her second-hand, refurbished laptop and then sent them to her friends and family to read. She had recently joined the writing group, enjoying being able to spend time with like-minded people.

One of the part-time jobs she had was in a coffee shop. She enjoyed the job, she liked chatting to the customers while taking their orders, would enquire about their day, make general chit-chat. She knew a lot of the regulars, if not by name, then by their coffee order. Not all the customers were approachable, however. 

David from the writers’ group frequented the coffee shop regularly. David was so wrapped up in himself, he didn’t even recognise Tina from the group. He didn’t see past the apron she wore, emblazoned with the coffee shop logo. She was just the staff, as far as he was concerned. David was so rude and abrupt to Tina and the other coffee-shop workers. David favoured the table in the window, where everyone could see him. He would make this dramatic performance of getting his laptop computer out, and his stack of papers. He would look around the shop to make sure he was being noticed. 

To Tina, David seemed to be playing at being a writer. The clothes he wore, the polo-neck jumper and tweed jacket, the expensive satchel he used, it was all for effect. It was all for show, a performance. David was so theatrical in his writing ways. Tina wrote her stories to keep her sane, to give her an outlet for her energies. It was a way of expressing herself. Whereas David enjoyed having everyone watching, Tina would have written even if nobody ever read her stories. 

David was so obnoxious to her and the other café workers. If the table needed clearing, he would simply click his fingers and point to the table. Tina would clear the dirty cups and give the table a wipe down. David wouldn’t even look up at her, never mind thank her. 

The other customers ordered their coffee at the counter, and Tina and her colleagues would bring their coffees, teas, cakes and sandwiches over. Not David. He would head straight to his table and call out his order, Can I get a flat white coffee and a salami and mozzarella panini? before arranging his writing equipment.  

Steph welcomed the writers into the hall as usual. She smiled, bidding them all good evening. Steph prided herself and the group on being welcoming and inclusive. If you were a Booker Prize winning author, or an aspiring writer who had written a dozen short stories, you were the same as far as Steph and the group was concerned. Everyone was welcome, and anyone who was brave enough to read their work got a round of applause. The group gathered at the table, taking the work they would share from rucksacks, handbags and satchels. 

When it was David’s turn to share his work, he got to his feet and cleared his throat. The others in the group would remain seated while reading their work but David found that standing helped his delivery, aided his performance. He would wave his arms wildly to emphasise his points. 

‘This is my latest poem. It’s called the Bird on the Branch.’ He glanced at the others to make sure everyone was paying attention.

At that moment, Tina came through the door, removing her apron. She took a free seat and mouthed ‘Sorry.’ to Steph. David was halfway through reading his piece. He glared at the late-comer over his reading glasses, shaking his head in disapproval. 

David bowed as he finished reading, with all the flourish of a Shakespearian actor. The group clapped.

‘Thanks, Dave. That was lovely.’ Steph said.

‘It’s David.’

‘Sorry, thank you David.’ Steph said, her cheeks reddening at the reprimand.

A while later it was Tina’s turn to read. Tina read out her latest short story. When she finished reading she shrugged, The End. As the group clapped her efforts, David cleared his throat, making it clear he had something to say. 

‘Well, I, for one, didn’t care for it.’ David said.

Tina said nothing.

‘Where is the poetry? Where is the art?’ David insisted.

‘What art? It’s a caper story about a group of friends robbing the bingo hall after being duped out of their winnings.’ Tina said.

David tutted and shook his head.

‘Well, my friends enjoyed it. They thought it was hilarious.’ Tina said.

‘That probably says more about your friends’ reading tastes than it does about the story.’ David replied. 

‘I enjoyed the story. It had a lovely humour and a feel-good quality to it.’ Steph said.

‘I could see it being turned into a TV show.’ Someone else agreed.

‘I’d watch it if they did.’ Another added.

‘My work means something on a deeper level. I was in my study the other morning when I saw this beautiful bird, I tried to capture the scene with words.’ David said.

‘Your study? Is that where do you do your writing?’ Tina asked. 

‘I write in my study, on an oak writing desk that is almost a hundred years old.’ David said with pride.

‘D’you know where I do my writing?’ Tina said. ‘I write in a notebook on my lap while giving my young one her breakfast, or on my mobile phone in the laundrette while my washing’s going round.’ 

‘You haven’t got a room to write in?’ David scoffed. ‘Virginia Woolf famously said that for a woman to write fiction she needs a room of one’s own.’ 

‘You know where my writing room is? It’s in here.’ Tina said, tapping a finger against her temple.

‘And here.’ She added, placing her palm against her heart. 

‘What I write is literature. You can hardly call your efforts literature.’ David said.

‘I write stories. They are fun to write, and hopefully entertaining to read. They have a beginning, a middle and an end, and usually a twist or two along the way.’ Tina said.

‘Guys, this is quite the debate. It’s not unusual to have different perspectives on writing. It’s good that you are both passionate about the craft in your own way.’ Steph said. 

While Tina nodded in agreement, agreeing to disagree, David pointed to a poster on the wall. The Greater Manchester Story Competition.

‘We’ll see who does better in the competition.’ He said. 

The Greater Manchester Story Competition was an annual short story competition between the writing groups in the Greater Manchester area. It was seen as something for the regions groups to work towards and focus on, as a showcase for the local aspiring writers. The contest was seen as a positive and encouraging thing. 

‘David, that is great idea. We should all write something for this year’s competition. If you could all let me have your entries by the end of the month, I’ll send all our submissions off to the contest. How very exciting!’ Steph said.

David shrugged, deflated that his idea of a one-on-one showdown with Tina was now a task for the whole group.

At the end of the session, as the writers headed for the door, all talk was of the competition, and what stories they would come up with. 

‘Have you got any ideas?’ Someone asked Tina.

‘My head is full of ideas. Finding the time to write the stories is the problem.’ Tina replied.

Over the next few weeks, the group handed over their stories for Steph to submit to the competition. The way they handed their work over reminded Tina of handing in homework at high school. She hoped to fare better with her stories than she had done with her homework. 

Early the following month, the group arrived at the hall as usual, taking their seats around the table. Steph announced that the judging panel had read all the submissions and the results were in. 

‘There were entries from writing groups all across the North West. I find it so inspiring that there are groups like ours all across the county. The panel had nothing but praise for all of our submissions. I am so proud of you all. And I have wonderful news. One of the writers in our group has won the competition.’ Steph said.

The group exchanged glances. Who could it be? Tina chewed on a fingernail, nervously. David shifted in his seat, smiling, ready and prepared himself for the adulation and accolades that would no doubt follow.

Steph read the printed paper.

‘The winner of the Annual North West Writing Competition is David. Congratulations to you.’ Steph said.

The group clapped and called out well done, congrats, bravo! Steph stood and presented David with a certificate. He beamed with pride. 

‘Thank you. I’m glad somebody recognises literature when they see it. I’ll have this certificate framed and hang it on the wall of my study.’ David said.

At the tea break, Tina made a point to approach David.

‘Well done, David. Congratulations.’ She said, offering her hand.

As he shook her hand David spoke.

‘Thank you, Tina. I’m sure with the right help, you could write something more worthwhile. I could give you some pointers.’ 

Tina forced a polite smile on her face and thanked him.

At the end of the session, as the group started to drift away, out through the double-doors, Steph asked Tina if she could have a word with her in private. Tina hung back while the others filed out. When they were alone, Steph took the seat next to her.

‘If it’s about my time-keeping, I get here as soon as I can. The buses are a nightmare.’ Tina said.

Steph dismissed her apology with a shake of her head and then spoke. 

‘As well as the winner’s certificate for David, this came. It’s addressed to you.’ 

Steph handed her a letter. Tina opened the envelope and read the contents. She gasped.

‘It’s from Jack Richmond, the publishers who sponsored the competition. They like my story and want to know if I can send them a novel for their consideration to publish.’ Tina said, shock in her voice.

‘Tell them yes.’ Steph insisted, jabbing a finger at her. 

‘I don’t have a novel to send them. I’ve only ever written short stories.’ Tina said.

‘We’ll get your stories crafted into a novel.’ 

‘Really? You think that’s possible?’ Tina asked.

‘Absolutely. There are plenty of recurring characters and themes in your stories. You’ve got the foundations for a novel. It’s all there. We just need to work on it, craft it and mould it. It will take some work but we can do it. We then need to shuffle the pieces around until it resembles a novel.’  

‘I can’t wait to get started.’ Tina said.

‘I can’t wait to tell David.’ Steph admitted with a mischievous grin.

By  Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom