Craig Potter had been writing stories for as long as he could remember. Growing up, his free-time had been spent either reading a book, or writing one. Now, in his late twenties, what had started out as something to occupy him on childhood rainy afternoons, had become such a rewarding pastime. There was no thrill like writing, the putting together of ideas and words until they became living, breathing stories.

He had recently wondered if he was missing out on something. He enjoyed writing but perhaps there were other like-minded people out there. He couldn’t be the only person who arrived home from work in the evening, to throw themselves into the story they were currently writing. He knew there was a large online writing community, but he had never been one for the whole internet thing. He didn’t do social media and only went online when he had to. He would use the internet maps or would look at the menus of a restaurant he was thinking of trying, but that was about his limit.

Maybe there were other writers in his local area he could connect with. His work would surely improve under the guidance and mentorship of a writing group. On a dark winter evening, in the usual glow of the laptop, in his living room. Craig finished typing up his latest story. Perhaps, he thought, writers didn’t have to be solitary creatures. Writing by its nature was something people did alone in their rooms, but, he wondered, what if there was a community around the corner he could join? He should put himself out there. His mother was always saying he should meet new people. He knew she worried about him, stuck at home writing his stories.

Did his mother have a point? While he didn’t really have a great yearning to meet people, it would be interesting to meet fellow writers. This could be the start of something. Who knew, a local group might even publish anthologies. He really did have nothing to lose. And if there was nothing out there, or if the local group wasn’t for him, then he could retreat back to his laptop and his stories.

He made himself a cup of tea and went back to the computer. He typed in the search engine Salford writing groups and hit enter. Seconds later the screen was filed with results. A lot of the writing groups and classes were in the city centre. He couldn’t be bothered with trekking into town. If it was to be something he could commit to in the long term, it would have to be local. If there was a writing group within walking distance or a short drive, then he would go for it.

Then he saw it. Story Time Writing Group. The sessions were held every Thursday evenings in a room in a pub. The Lloyd pub in Barton. Craig knew it well. It was around twenty minutes’ walk from home and they did a cracking selection of draft ales. If he went along and it was awful, then he could get stuck into the beers instead. There was a contact email address at the bottom of the page.

Before he could talk himself out of it, and change his mind, Craig typed a short message, explaining that he was a story writer, and that he’d be interested in coming along to the sessions. He clicked send and sat back with a sigh. He half-hoped that he heard nothing back. Doing anything new was always stressful. He hated new things like this. Just the thought of walking in a room of people he didn’t know made him feel sick. He would be the new kid at school all over again.

The following afternoon he received a reply. He clicked on the new email, feeling apprehension and excitement.

Good afternoon,

Thank you for your enquiry. Story Time writing group meets every Thursday. We start at 7.30pm prompt. Please bring examples of your writing with you.

Best wishes,

Joanne Donnelly. Story Time admin.

Craig read the email several times. He was quite surprised at the formal tone of the email, but the writing group certainly seemed professional. And he was to bring his stories. Would the stories be good enough? Would they appreciate his quirky tales? He had always just written ideas and stories as they came to him. Last summer, a fun-fair had come to town. That had sparked the idea for a ghost story. He tried not to think too much and just write. Would these stories go down well? Would they bear up under scrutiny?

Craig arrived at the pub just after twenty past seven. He wanted to strike the right balance between arriving too early and being too late. He ordered a pint of craft lager. As the barmaid pulled his pint, Craig mentioned he was there for the writers group. She pointed.

‘Just up those stairs.’

Wondering what he was letting himself in for, Craig took his pint, and walked up the wide carpeted staircase. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The small function room had pub tables, chairs and stools, several of which had been pushed together in the middle of the room. Half a dozen people were sitting around the tables. Judging by the pens, paper and stationery on the tables, it looked like he was in the right place. A man in his fifties in a Pink Floyd t-shirt waved him over.

‘I’m here for the writing group.’ Craig said.

‘Come on in.’ the guy said, with a smile.

Craig adjusted his rucksack and took a free seat. The guy introduced himself as Tony. The others welcomed him warmly. They were a real mix of people. One woman was about the same age as him. She shifted awkwardly in her seat as she said her name was Mandy. Craig sensed she was as introverted as he was. There were a husband and wife, Dennis and Esther. They were in their sixties and had matching notebooks and pens.

‘Joanne will be here anytime now.’ said Tony. ‘She comes straight from the office so she’s often on the minutes.’

Craig nodded, assuming this was the person who had responded to his email. The reverential tone with which Tony spoke of her, Craig guessed she was in charge. No doubt this Joanne would be leading the session. As the others chatted amongst themselves, discussing everything from novel ideas and online writing courses, to the planned roadworks on the edge of town, Craig noticed something. He was the only one drinking alcohol. The others sipped tea, coffee or water. Craig had just assumed that, as it was being held in a pub, that drinking would be permitted. He suddenly wasn’t so sure. As if reading his mind, Tony spoke quietly.

‘Joanne doesn’t encourage drinking alcohol during these sessions. She says it interferes with the creative process.’

While Craig thought of the countless creatives, including many authors and poets, who had created great masterpieces while under the influence, he simply nodded, fair enough. Surely, he thought, you had to do what suited you. If he found that a couple of pints, or a drop of whiskey, helped him relax and get his head straight for writing, then why shouldn’t he?

At that moment the door flew open with all the drama and flourish of a police raid. A woman in her thirties burst into the room. She wore a dark suit, carried a briefcase and clutched a stack of papers.

‘Good evening, everyone.’ she said in a cold tone.

The group clamoured to say hello as she made her way to a seat at the head of the table. Craig sensed the spot at the end was her seat. He was glad he hadn’t made the mistake of taking her spot.

Still with the air of a teacher, she placed her belongings down, and smiled politely at the group.

‘Joanne, this is Craig.’ said Tony.

She gave Craig a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

‘Ah, yes.’ she said. ‘Welcome to Story Time. Have you brought the brought examples of your work, as requested?’

Craig pulled out his papers and, feeling as though he was handing over evidence in a criminal trial, slid them across the table. She thanked him curtly and stashed the stories in her briefcase. Joanne then clapped her hands. The group fell silent, ready for the session to begin.

‘I would firstly like to welcome Craig to our sessions. I’m sure that, in time, he will become a valued member of our group.’

There was an authority to her tone, of the teacher addressing her class. Except this was not school. The writers gathered here were there voluntarily. They were all equal, regardless who was leading the group. They were all adults, not school children.

But, he thought, if this group worked, if it helped with his writing, then it would be worth letting this Joanne person think she was in charge. The others in the group did seem like a nice bunch, even if they did bow-down to the leader a little too much for his liking. And they were writers, like him. Under Joanne’s instruction, the members read short extracts of their work, and offered comments and praise on other people’s writing.

Joanne always had the final say. Tony read a piece about taking his grandson to the football for the first time. While the others praised the tone of this writing, Joanne simply stated that it needed work. Tony nodded, sorry.

Despite the session being something of a dictatorship, the group did have something about it. The writing wasn’t the greatest, but the group had a warmth, a camaraderie and support, despite the bluntness of its leader.

At the end of the session, Craig packed away his things and shrugged into his coat. Tony patted him on the back. See you next week, mate. The others bid him good evening and said it was nice to meet him. Joanne snapped her briefcase shut and said a good night to the room.

The following Thursday, Craig arrived for the session. He opted for a cup of tea, instead of the frowned-upon beer. The group greeted Craig warmly, saying how it was good to see him again. And once again, Joanne entered like the villain in a science fiction film. Craig smiled at the thought of her commanding her own fleet of space craft. Yet again, she clapped her hands for the start of the session. She opened with the announcement of this month’s writing competition. The prize would be a twelve pounds book token. The group ooh’d over the prize, while Craig felt he was an extra in a sit-com. He was also reminded of a virtual parish-council meeting that had escalated and gone viral a few years ago. With this bunch, though, nobody would question Joanne’s authority.

Joanne cast her gaze in Craig’s direction.

‘Craig, your piece Once Bitten was the featured story on the website this week.’

‘Oh really, excellent. Thank you. I wasn’t aware-’ Craig started.

‘It would have been nice if you would have at least acknowledged the honour. Just sayin.’ That’s all.’

Before he could respond that he hadn’t even known stories were posted on the site, Joanne continued.

‘It’s just polite to show appreciation.’ she looked around the group, her expression serious. ‘As writers, we must remember to show gratitude for the support we are given, otherwise people will take their support elsewhere and give it to writers who respond positively.

‘Right, Tina, would you like to read us your piece?’

Craig spent the rest of the session, just waiting for it to be over. He said nothing, a smile forced on his face. He wanted this to be over. He felt the stinging humiliation as Joanne’s words rang around his head. Could have at least acknowledged the honour, just sayin’, just sayin’.

At the end of the session, he quickly packed away his things, then threw his coat on, before rushing to the door.

‘See you next week.’ Tony called.

‘See you.’ he managed, thinking, no you won’t.

Back home, he paced the living room in angry frustration. He should have said something, done something. He should have stood up for himself. Who did she think she was talking to? How dare she speak to him that way? Just because she ran this little writing group, didn’t give her permission to sepal to him like that. It was disgraceful. What was wrong with people?

He recalled a friend who had taken up Karate lessons. The atmosphere in the classes had been toxic. The black belts and so-called senior members had lorded it over the others. They would treat the rest of the practitioners with such disdain, bossing them around, berating them, and barking instructions. And yet the members were paying for the privilege of being treated in such a way. The members were the customers, despite the made-up rank of black belt. It was, if you thought about it, the members that gave the black belts the authority in the first place. They let themselves be treated this way. These black belts, like the writing group leader, actually had no authority outside of that room. Those being bossed around were volunteering to let these people treat them like that.

It wasn’t even like a work-situation, where his bosses actually did have some authority over him. Joanne had no power over him at all. Who on earth was she to insist on anything? She would sit there critiquing the group’s writing, but had anyone actually read any of her work?

And as for it being impolite to ignore an honour he was unaware of, what about how impolite it was for her to chastise him like that in front of the group? He hadn’t responded to something he didn’t know about. Even if he did know but hadn’t reply, that was surely less rude than speaking to someone the way she had.

He was sure this wasn’t the first time she’d given a member a dressing-down. The others hadn’t seemed shocked or even faintly surprised at her outburst. They were obviously used to it. He recalled how they had all had a piece of writing ready to share. Nobody had said that they’d not had time that week, nobody claimed writer’s block. Had somebody been giving a telling off for failing to produce a story? It was clear that if a member failed to live up to Joanne’s expectations, then they would face a similar reprimand.

Craig booted up his laptop and went into his emails. He opened a new email to Joanne. He typed angrily and quickly. He expressed his feelings, there was just no need to speak to him like that. There were, he suggested, ways of speaking to people. Even if he had been aware of the story posting and had not replied, then Joanne could have pointed this out more politely, calmly, and in a much nicer way, and preferably, not in front of the group. As such, his email ended, I do not feel I can return to the group. He was so tempted to finish with Just sayin’ as she had said to him. But he stopped himself. He moved the cursor up to the send message box. He paused.

Should he send the email? How would it be received? There is no way Joanne would accept his points. She would no doubt send an indignant, outraged, self-righteous reply. You couldn’t win with people like that. Joanne would put all the emphasis on him. In her version of events, Craig would be initially rude by not responding, and then be oversensitive, twisting her constructive comments into a personal attack.

There was another way to take revenge, he decided. He was a writer, after all. He opened up a new word document and started to type, a smile on his face.

Craig Potter had been writing stories for as long as he could remember.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom