Charlie clutched his written story and looked around at his friends, his fellow story writers. They were gathered in his small apartment room, squeezed in on the sofas and sitting on the floor rugs, all eager to hear what he had written. The group exchanged stories, shared ideas and were, as far as Charlie was concerned, the perfect writing group. He much preferred listening to other people’s work than reading his own. He always felt really self-conscious. He would get this great idea, would sit down to write the story, but the finished product never quite lived up to the image he’d had in mind. He recalled a quote from a famous novelist. Their favourite novel was always the next one, the one they were going to write, as it was still perfect.

Charlie read out his story with all the confidence he could muster. He delivered the last line of the tale and shrugged awkwardly, that’s all I’ve got. As soon as he finished speaking his friends chimed in with their thoughts on his story. They loved the wit, the humour of the writing, the dramatic twist. Charlie just nodded, he had no idea where these ideas came from. He just got these ideas and wrote the stories. He was completely in awe of the other writers gathered around. He was in such good company, amongst these fantastic writers. Their stories just blew his mind. They had such imagination, such spark. He hoped that being in their company would improve his own writing.

The next writer to read, a woman in her mid-thirties, cleared her throat and started to read her piece. Charlie once again felt as if he was in some film, a movie about a guy who’s never really fitted in, always been writing these weird stories while his friends were off playing sports or hanging out, and how the guy had finally met the group of people with whom he belonged, who understood, who got the art, the craft of writing, who composed these amazing stories and who would, in turn, listen to the stories he wrote. 

When she finished telling her story, Charlie told her how much he’d enjoyed it, and that she really should write a sequel. The others agreed telling her not to leave us hanging. A few of the others shared their stories, and the group gave their thoughts, all positive, they were all friends here. They were a community. Stories and ideas were shared here. This was a special, sacred thing. Charlie felt like he belonged to a secret society or something, some unique university fraternity. Most of his friends were into football and felt the belonging when in the pack of fans at the stadium. Whenever he was dragged along to the game, he felt even more of an outsider than he usually did. 

Here, with his writing friends, was where he fitted in. Here he wasn’t the geeky guy scribbling away in his notebooks, he was Charlie, a fellow story writer. He was one of them. 

There was a knock on the door and his flatmate, Steve poked his head around the door. He found Charlie in the same position as usual, all alone in his room, at his desk, in front of his computer. 

‘Are you on that writing website again?’ Steve asked.

Charlie nodded, glancing around from the screen, his pale face framed in the white monitor glow. 

‘We’re off out for a pint, are you coming?’ Steve asked. 

‘I’ll see you in there, buy me a beer.’ Charlie replied.

As his flatmate closed the door, Charlie turned back to his friends.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom