My Aunt Geraldine’s sixtieth birthday party was the typical family get-together. Family members and friends crammed into their large semi-detached house in Chorlton. Her and my Uncle Paul prided themselves on the parties they would throw. The single-malt whiskey and premium lager flowed along with the selection of fine wine. There would be singing and good times. I usually tried to get out of these bashes as they weren’t really my thing. I’d much rather be in a pub, with a couple of friends, having a catch-up, rather than these big parties where you couldn’t hear the person talking next to you. These big parties never made any sense to me. Where was the logic? Why did my aunt and uncle insist on inviting every person they knew round to their house on the same night and try and mingle with everyone? 

I had made an excuse to get out of the St Patrick’s Day party, saying I’d already made plans. My aunt had replied, laying down the social equivalent of a royal flush, you’ll have to come to my sixtieth birthday party. There was no beating that. I’d replied that I wouldn’t miss it for the world, when what I actually meant was, there’s no way I can get out of it. 

The birthday party was in full swing, the drink was flowing, shrieking laughter filled the air, along with 80s tunes I’d not heard in years. Geraldine was working the crowd, enjoying being centre of attention. Paul was also revelling in his role as host. I had just returned to the living room with a fresh bottle of ale, and perched on the arm of a chair, when Paul came over. He took a swig from his bottled lager and pointed a finger at me. 

‘Are you still writing your stories?’ he asked.

There it was, the inevitable question. At every family get-together, Paul asked if I was still writing. At Christmas, his questioning my writing was as predictable as novelty socks and selection boxes. Am I still writing? The question really grated on me after all these years. Still writing?

My uncle didn’t ask my brother if he was still a Manchester United fan, or my father if he was still playing the ukulele. The question of was I still doing it, seemed to be exclusively reserved for my writing.

‘How much money do you make from your writing? Don’t you put the stories on the internet?’ He asked. 

‘I post them on a website, actually. I always get favourable reviews. It’s an online writing community.’

‘And the readers, they pay to read them? Do they pay a set amount per story?’

‘Well, no. Nobody pays. Anybody can read them. It’s about getting your stories out there, letting people read them, and reading other writer’s work. It’s about reviewing, about giving feedback and support.’

‘You mean you’re doing all that work, for nothing?’

He stared at me incredulously. I didn’t know what to say. Where did I start?

I didn’t write for money, I wrote for passion. Writing was my craft, my art. It was what kept me sane, what helped get me through the day. As a famous writer once said, on a good writing day, nothing else matters. I was always getting ideas for stories. I’d be on the train to work and something would give me an idea. I’d put that on the ever-increasing list of story ideas. I spent most of my free time writing my stories. It was my hobby, my main pastime. 

Okay, so I didn’t get paid for it, but most people didn’t get paid for their hobby. In fact, most people paid out to do what they enjoyed doing. If you were into watching football, you’d have to pay to go to the match. If you were more into playing football, unless you were the next George Best, chances were, you wouldn’t necessarily get paid for doing it. Most writers made little money. Many of those that were actually published, did not earn enough to give up work, and write full time. A small percentage were lucky enough to make a living from their writing. There was a quote by poet Robert Graves that I clung to as though it was a life-raft. He said that there’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money either. That summed up the way I felt about my writing, and when people simply asked how much money I made from it, I couldn’t help feeling that they were really missing the point.

My Aunt appeared beside her husband, nodding in agreement. Here we go, I thought. 

‘One of my friends,’ my Aunt Geraldine chipped in. ‘she knows somebody who wrote a novel. They’re living in America now, they are millionaires.’

‘Have you written a novel?’ Paul asked.

‘I’m a story writer, not a novelist.’ I insisted.

Before I could go on to explain that it was like asking an athlete sprinter if they’ve signed up for this year’s London marathon, Paul spoke.

‘You should write a novel.’ 

‘I’m always reading books, aren’t I?’ Geraldine said. ‘And they even sell novels in the supermarket these days. That’s where the money is.’

‘You should definitely write a novel. You’d make a killing.’ Paul said.

I shook my head. I couldn’t figure these two out at all. They seemed to be at once, belittling my writing, asking if I was still writing, implying it was a fad that I’d grow out of, and also asking why I wasn’t making millions from my work, and advising me to write a novel. 

I waved my empty bottle, and told them I needed another drink. I headed for the kitchen chunnering to myself. The next time they ask, I thought, I know exactly what I’m going to say. 

Still writing… still breathing…

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom