The Write Outcome

I’ve been writing stories since he was a kid. Being a writer was all I ever wanted to be. It was a childhood hobby that I never quite grew out of. All my family and friends would read my stories. As soon as I finished typing up my story, I would email the completed tale out to my reading circle. Whenever I got together with my friends, we would discuss the latest story. They would go into detail about what they loved about it, the twists they never saw coming. They would suggest changes. Maybe change the ending so that this or that happens, maybe have the main character driving off into the sunset. Or, how about, the gangsters go to leave. They head to the airport, and are on the plane, about to take off, when the person in the next seat turns out to be a cop and arrests them. Another thing my friends enjoyed was giving me ideas about a story. I would get a phone call that started with the line, here’s a story idea for you. And more often than not, I’d go on to write the story, usually slipping their name in as a character along the way. 

I would print off each story for my parents. I’d call round with my latest offering and let my mother and father read his work. My mum would nod and comment as she read, oh I like that. While my mother enthused and encouraged me in my writing, my father was more like an examiner, marking a set of A Level exam papers. Dad and I would sit at the kitchen table, like the days when he would help with my maths homework. We would pore over each paragraph, with me explaining to dad what I intended, and where the story was going.

One evening, as we finished dissecting my latest story, my father snapped his fingers.

‘Oh, yeah, I saw something in the newspaper the other day. I thought it might be of interest.’ He said.

He rummaged through a stack of papers. When he found the edition he wanted, he spread the newspaper out on the table and flicked through the pages, scanning each page, looking for what he was after. Here we go, folding the newspaper into quarters. He pointed to an advertisement in the local news.

The writing group was a short bus ride away, on the outskirts of the city centre. The advert declared that the group were looking for new members. If you were a story-teller, a writer, a creative person, then the group was for you. I read the advert over and over, re-reading in the hope of gleaning more information. 

I had to admit I was intrigued. It would be fascinating to meet with fellow writers, other like-minded people, my people, my peers. I just couldn’t imagine sitting in a room with other writers. It was the stuff dreams were made of. I was the only person I knew who wrote stories. I didn’t know a single other person who was into creative writing. To my mind there was me, scribbling away, working on these random stories, all hours of the night, and then there was the successful published authors. It felt as distant as amateur dramatics to Hollywood. There seemed to be nothing in-between. I was all alone, a solitary writer. And yet, if the advert was to be believed, there was a group of other writers who met weekly, and who were looking for writers just like me. 

And so, later that week, I caught the bus out into the leafy suburbs on the edge of the city. I found the wooden hall that reminded him of his childhood scout hut. Quite unsure of what I was getting myself into, I pushed the double doors open and went inside.

The room was the size of a small function room, with tables and chairs arranged in a square in the middle. The people sitting at the tables, looking like students about to sit an exam, ranged in ages, from some who were just out of high school, to those looking to write fiction in their retirement. They chatted amongst themselves, discussing the week they’d had, the books they’d read and the stories they had submitted for this evening.

There were four people standing and mingling around, two men and two women. They had an air of authority about them, the way a teacher has in the classroom. They were clearly in charge. When they saw me hovering in the doorway, the four of them drifted towards me.

‘Hi, I’m here for the writing group. I saw your advert in the newspaper.’ I said.

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Charles.’ 

‘My name’s Mick.’ I said.

Charles introduced me to the three other leaders, Dominic, Rosalind and Tabitha. They were slightly older than I was, maybe in their early thirties, and had this air of confidence, of intelligence. They had something of the intellectual about them. Charles wore a silk scarf draped loosely around his neck and Dominic sported a tweed jacket over his black polo-neck jumper. Rosalind looked at me over her red-framed reading glasses, while Tabitha offered me her hand. Enchante! she said, the bracelets on her wrist jangling.

‘The four of us make up the Panel. We run the group.’ Charles said.

‘We start with an informal discussion. If anyone has any topics they would like to discuss, or any questions about their latest WIP, that’s Work In Progress, then we go through that. Later on, we reveal the winner of the monthly competition.’

‘Stories are submitted by email before the meeting each month. The Panel reads the submissions and picks the best story.’ Tabitha said. ‘There is First Place for the best story, and then ‘Special Mentions’ for other submissions that have impressed the judges but just missed out on the top spot.’ 

‘Yeah, sounds cool. Nice one.’ I said.

‘Indeed, nice one.’ Dominic said with a smirk.

‘We then go round the group and give feedback on each story submitted. The criticism is constructive, of course. Our aim is simply to encourage creativity and improve your writing.’ Charles said. 

‘And the meeting ends with the author of the winning story sharing their piece with the group.’ Rosalind said. 

I was invited to take a seat, as the session was about to start. I looked around at the others, all sitting there, notepads in front of them, pen in hand, ready to take notes and eager to get started. This was it, I thought. I’d found my place in the world, a place where being a story writer wasn’t met with confusion or derision. 

The Panel welcomed everyone and thanked them for coming along, before getting underway. The meeting started with a debate about the pros and cons of writing in the first person. It was so cool to be sitting in a room with fellow writers. 

A guy called Lawrence was the winner of the Best Story award. Lawrence in his forties and dressed in a long-sleeved rugby shirt and corduroy trousers. While the group gave him a round of applause, he raised a hand, thank-you, guys. 

I had to admit when Lawrence read his story, it went over my head. I didn’t understand the story, and the point he was trying to make. I just didn’t get it. The piece was about ducks on a frozen lake. There didn’t seem to be any plot. I couldn’t get my head around it. I hoped in time I’d be able to appreciate more complex writing. It might even improve my own writing. 

‘Thank you, Lawrence. That worked on so many levels.’ Someone said. 

The others chipped in that they agreed with the comment. I simply nodded, feigning agreement. If I was being honest, I didn’t think the story worked on one level, never mind all these other levels the others were speaking of. 

There was something seductively intellectual about the group. They were more literary, more cultured than anyone I’d ever met. I felt like I’d gone away to Cambridge University or something. I was excited to see where things would go from here. I had dropped out of college halfway through my A Levels. Unsure of what I wanted to for a living, I’d ended up getting an office job. 

The following week, I dusted off a recent story. It was one of my strongest stories, not as random as some of the others. It was a good story. I tweaked it and made sure the twist at the end absolutely nailed it. And then I emailed it across to the panel. It felt so cool to be submitting my stories to the panel for their consideration. 

In the run-up to the next meeting, I wondered how my story would fare in the contest and what feedback the panel would have.

The meeting started with a discussion on the use of hyphens and exclamation marks in stories. My dad and I always debated this issue, especially over certain words. I would either treat as one word, or two, depending on my mood, but my dad would always insist on using a hyphen.

When the moment came for the results of the contest, I held my breath. This was it. Would my name be called? 

Charles announced that the first place in the competition went to Lawrence. The others applauded. Lawrence nodded, thanks so much, and adjusted the cricket jumper knotted over his shoulders.  

‘It reminds of an early Chekov play. So powerful.’ Charles said. ‘Other special mentions go to, Louisa, Christopher and Richard. Well done everyone.’

I sighed and tried to conceal my disappointment. Maybe their words on my story would provide me with some much-needed encouragement. When my turn came, Charles read from his notes, while the others smiled politely.

‘I appreciate your efforts and can understand what you are aiming for. You have a long way to go, but there is a tiny glimmer of talent hidden in there.’ He said.

‘Thank you so much for taking part, Michael.’ Rosalind added.

I’m sure the words were meant to be encouraging, or I hoped they were, but I was disappointed. I knew I could tell a story; I could spin a yarn. Even detailing something that happened on the way home from work one night, my friends would listen enrapt. And yet, Charles had merely suggested that if you look closely enough then you could see I had a tiny glimmer of talent, if I just stuck with it and didn’t give up. I told myself not to be oversensitive. I wasn’t used to this level of criticism, that was all. To me, it may have sounded slightly patronising and condescending, but I hoped that was not the intention.

The meeting ended with Lawrence reading his work. Again, the story was beyond me. Was he deliberately writing this convoluted stuff? From the little I could understand, this month’s story, the winning entry, no less, was about a lonely man going to the launderette on a Sunday morning. Again, the Panel and the group raved over the story. Maybe I was doing it wrong. Maybe I was missing something. I felt like I had wandered into an advanced mathematics class without a calculator. 

I was obviously disappointed not to have won first place, nor a special mention. I saw myself as a natural story-teller. I enjoyed telling and sharing stories. Perhaps, I did have to hone my craft, rather than writing in an organic way, as I’d done for years. I would get an idea for a story, then thicken it up and write the story. It was like cooking. I would start of by chucking my basic ingredients in the pot and frying things off. I’d then get it bubbling nicely, before adding all the seasoning, I’d then simmer on full heat until the story came to an exciting conclusion. I knew that the greats, the famous authors, took years to get one book just right. But I was an amateur short story writer, not a literary great. Whereas the novelists were the equivalent of a Michelin star chef in a fancy restaurant, I was making sausage sandwiches in a butty shop. I was aware of my limitations and knew my level. 

The Panel’s comments had me thinking. Maybe I could and should, up my game. At the office, I had carried a few days holiday over from last year’s allocation. I knew how I would use those days. I booked two days off work, a Thursday and Friday. I would dedicate those days, plus the weekend, to working on my story for the next meeting. 

Over those four days, I worked on my story. I got up early, as if I was heading to the office. Instead of the commute, I’d grab my notepad and scraps of paper and get stuck in. I would work all day and late into the night. I was reminded of my student days, cramming before an exam or before a deadline for a piece of coursework. The story I was working on was a crime thriller. It was a cool, slick story, inspired by many books and films. 

When I was done, I read the story back. It is the best story I could come up with. It had everything. There was action, twists and turns, police informants. It was a good story. As my father always said, a good story needs a beginning, a middle and an end. My story had it all. I was eager to hear what the panel would make of my latest submission.

The following week, I went along to the meeting, interested to see what the Panel would make of my new story. When it came time for the results of the competition, Charles cleared his throat.

‘The best story goes to Lawrence. Well done.’ He said.

The group applauded.  

‘It reminds me of a piece by Pushkin. I read Pushkin in the original Russian, of course.’ Rosalind said.

‘Special mentions go to Daphne, Peter and Catherine.’ Dominic said. 

I smiled politely. I felt like a boxer who had lost on points in a fight he had clearly won. I had to admit it stung. When my turn came, my own story received a rather different reaction from the Panel than Lawrence’s submission. Once again, my writing received reviews that where rather more underwhelmed. 

‘I don’t say this to be unkind.’ Charles started.

I knew then that it would be an attack. It was like those people at my office who think they can be as rude as they like, if they start a sentence with I’m not being funny, but…

‘It was, I have to say, the short story equivalent of an airport novel.’ Charles said.

‘I’m afraid I have to agree. It was all a bit trashy. It was like eating junk food. Yes, rather enjoyable at the time, but gives you nothing substantial. Do you see?’ Tabitha added.

I simply nodded, fair enough.

This time, Lawrence’s winning entry was a detailed account of a boyhood train journey to the seaside. No plot, no twists and turns. Just a very descriptive piece. I wasn’t running his writing down, but surely my stories were as good as that. 

Lawrence did have a way with words. He could craft a beautifully written sentence, but where was the story, where was the plot? This wasn’t poetry we were writing it was stories, creative fiction. Maybe I was wrong, but I couldn’t see what was so impressive about three pages of writing describing the weather, before the story got going.

In the days that followed, I decided to try it their way. I would change direction.  I had tried the fast-paced thriller, and it hadn’t been well-received. The comments about the airport novel and junk food, still stung. Maybe the group would appreciate something a little more sentimental. I decided to step out of my comfort zone for my next submission. 

Over the next few days, I came up with a love story. This was a tale of an office romance. It was sweet, it was poignant. 

Again, I went along to see what they would make of the change in direction of my story. Rather than something resembling an action film, I had produced a nice love story. What, I wondered, would be the outcome?

‘This week was a very close-run thing. Thanks to all those who shared their work. The winner this week is your favourite and mine. It is, of course, Lawrence.’ Charles said.

‘Special mentions this time go to Christopher, Dennis, and Sebastian.’ Tabitha said.

I was reeling. While the others, once again congratulated their favourite son, I sat there at a loss for words. I hadn’t even received a special mention. To me, my stories had a tale to tell, they were more than flowery observational pieces that didn’t really seem to be ‘about’ anything.

When the turn came to review my story, the review was distinctly lukewarm reviews

‘We mentioned junk food last week. It seems you’ve now added extra cheese to the take-out food. I didn’t care for it.’ 

‘Yes, it was all rather contrived.’

I nodded, blinking the tears out of my eyes. 

Right, I would have to bring out the big guns. There was one person who could help. For my next story, I’d be tagging in my father. Rather than going through my story after it was finished, I would work on the story with my dad, as it was being written. We could change things as we went along and I was certain the story would be all the better for it. 

My father had been reading books since his own childhood, and had read everything, from the Classics the group loved to name-drop, to every Booker prize winning novel, since the early 1960s. Surely, with my father’s help, I would fare better than previous attempts in the competition.

Over the next week, we put together the story. The story was set in Italy during the Second World War. It was about an English soldier based in Italy at the end of the War, was very loosely based on my grandfather. The tale had it all, love and intrigue, and a fascinating backdrop. The story had excitement and danger, but also sentiment and romance. It was just perfect. The final scene, where Gerald left Italy, leaving his Italian love behind, was beautifully heart-breaking.

‘I think we’ve done it, son.’ my father said.

I submitted the story as usual and waited excitedly to see how the story gets on. I hoped to be able to report back to my dad that we’d done it, we’d won first place. Failing that, if we missed out on the top spot, a special mention would have been a consolation prize. It would have been something, an acknowledgement. A special mention would be a start.

Once again, I went along, trying not to get my hopes up. I found myself holding my breath as Charles announced the result. This was it. It felt like make-or-break time. 

‘The first place goes to Lawrence and his insightful monologue about a patient waiting in a doctor’s waiting room.’

My heart sank. The illusive first place had gone to their favourite writer as usual. Surely, I had done enough to warrant a Special Mention.

‘And this month’s special mentions are,’ Rosalind checked her notes, ‘Clara, Christopher and Daphne.’

I was stunned. Was I missing something? What did the judges want from me? I had tweaked and changed my stories to be more sensitive and sentimental, rather than horror stories or action-packed romps. I had worked on this story with my father. The two of us had produced a decent story, that, we felt would be worthy of mention. Maybe their feedback would enlighten me. Maybe their comments would help soothe the stinging I felt. 

‘Again, we appreciate your efforts, Michael.’ Charles said.

Yeah, yeah, of course, sure, sure. The others chimed. 

‘But it all seemed rather far-fetched.’ Charles added.

‘It isn’t far-fetched. It’s actually based on fact.’ I insisted.

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t ring true. A story must resonate. It has to connect with the reader. Do you see?’ Tabitha said.

‘Yes,’ I snapped, ‘I see quite clearly what’s going on.’

I managed to sit there, waiting it out, holding on until the end of the meeting. I just wanted to be out of there, to be anywhere but there, to be away from these people with their airs and graces and pretentions. This wasn’t me. They were writers, but the weren’t my type of writers. Where was the raw passion and enthusiasm for writing a powerful story that packs a punch? Some of my stories had such twists and cliff-hanger endings, rather than the middle-class musings of Lawrence and this bunch. 

As soon as Charles thanked us all for coming, and announced the meeting was over, I was on my feet. I zipped my coat up and headed for the door. I had reached the doorway when I heard Charles call my name. I kept walking. He followed me outside and called out again.

‘Never mind, Michael. You’ll get there. Perseverance is key to becoming a writer, dear boy.’ He said.

‘I am a writer. I am where I want to be with my writing. And my name is Mick. Michael is my father’s name, and he is a better writer than half of that lot in there.’ I said, jabbing a finger towards the door. 

‘Steady on. There is really no need for that.’ Charles said.

I shook my head and turned to leave. I stopped and half turned back.

‘Tell Lawrence I said congratulations on winning next week’s competition.’ 

I called round to see my parents on the way back from the group. In the living room, my mother put down her puzzle-book and gave me a hug.

‘Well, did we win?’ My father asked, expectantly.

I flopped onto the sofa beside him and shook my head.

‘Nope, not even mentioned in despatches. Nothing. Again.’ 

‘Really? I don’t get it. That was a wonderful story. What was the winning entry?’ He asked.

‘It was a monologue about a guy waiting in a doctor’s waiting room.’

‘Get out of town!’ 

‘It seems that whatever I write, they pick the usual suspects. I lost my rag with them in the end. I don’t think I’ll be going back.’ I sighed. ‘I just wanted to find my writing community, you know?’

My father said nothing. He grabbed his best bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. He poured us both a large measure. 

‘I’m sorry I wasted your time, dad. Our efforts were for nothing.’ I said.

Dad raised his glass. Scribo ergo sum! He said.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Work it out, you did Latin at school.’ My mum said.

I took a sip of whiskey and mulled it over.

‘I write therefore I am!’ I said.

My dad and I clinked glasses. 

‘You’ve never written for anyone but yourself. You write for you. You shoot from the hip and write from the heart. You need to go back to that.’ My father said. 

‘I think you might be right. I write for the fun of it, not to impress anybody, certainly not to impress some pompous group who think they are the Bloomsbury Group!’

‘Remember when you were a kid, you’d write all those vampire stories? You didn’t worry about what anyone thought. You were enjoying yourself.’ My mum said. 

‘Come over tomorrow night and we’ll have a proper chat. We’ll talk everything through.’ My dad said.

‘That’d be lovely.’ I said. ‘Thanks guys.’

When I turned into my parents’ street the next evening, I struggled to find a spot to park in. The street was busier than usual. My dad had mentioned that one of their neighbours was having a birthday party this week. By all accounts the celebrations would make a Royal wedding seem like a low-key, no-frills affair. Perhaps the party was tonight and the cars in the street were revellers for big birthday bash.  

I followed my father through to the living room. Rather than finding my mother sitting there in her usual spot, reading a paperback book or doing the crossword puzzle, the room was crammed with people. My mother, my closest friends, my siblings, all gathered. They welcomed me in, shaking my hand, patting me on the back. That explained the parking congestion outside. It appeared that it was I who was having the party.

‘What’s all this?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘My birthday was months ago.’

‘Ask your father.’ My mum said, giving him a nudge. 

My dad handed me a whiskey and spoke.

‘I know you were gutted that the writing group came to nothing. You said you hoped it would be your writing community.’ He said.

I nodded, right so far.

‘I wanted to remind you that you do have a community, and that we’re right behind you.’

‘Shouldn’t that be write behind you?’ My mother said, miming writing in the air. 

Everyone groaned at the awful gag. 

‘We wanted to say, how proud we are of you.’ My mum said. ‘And of your stories. You’re a writer. You always have been. And you always will be. We are your readers. We’re your fan club.’

‘Thanks so much. It really does mean a lot.’ I said.

Later that evening, when the others had left, my dad poured me another measure. One for the road. 

‘I’ve got one last thing to say about the writing group.’ He said.

‘What’s that?’ 

‘I think it would make a good story.’

I laughed at the suggestion, then noticed my dad’s deadpan expression.

‘You should make that the topic of your next story. What do you say?’ He insisted.

I raised my glass, Scribo ergo sum!

When I got home, I grabbed my writing notebook and turned to a fresh page. The first line came to me straight away. 

I’ve been writing stories since I was a kid. Being a writer was all I ever wanted to be.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom