A Writer’s Glamorous Life
It’s not all premieres and parties, oh no. I’m tired, I haven’t spent an evening home in about a month, and tonight I remember I’ve agreed to go and speak to The Write Stuff, a writer’s group in Dartford.
I think it’s fair to say that Dartford would not easily spring to mind if you were planning a vacation. It’s not horrible, certainly not as bad as the next stop down the line, Gravesend, and it has the Mick Jagger Centre, where writers – and many other groups – meet. But it’s not an obvious option.
And it’s raining – not air sharpening stair-rods but sooty autumnal drizzle. I haven’t eaten. I’d rather be at home with a movie. But I promised to go, and I don’t like to break obligations. My charming PR Lynsey has turned up – a step beyond the call of duty in my book, so the journey’s a laugh. I’m not expecting anyone to come out on such a filthy night.
But lo and behold, a roomful of really nice people who want to improve their writing, who keep the questions coming and make the evening a pleasant surprise. Elaine, who runs the class, gives out prizes and encouragement, and I think how cool it is that we all want to do something other than sit and watch TV. And suddenly I’m looking at them and thinking ‘any one of you could find a readership soon because you’re doing something you genuinely care about’.
It’s still bucketing down when we leave, and the taxi’s vanished. A lady from the class gives us a lift. Lynsey heads off to grab a bite, and I go home thinking this; writers complain that their lives are solitary. It’s only solitary if writers choose it to be; we can all help each other and learn something, it just takes enthusiasm.