Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FOUR: January 2015 – William Stern
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FOUR: January 2015 – William Stern
My hearing’s worse than ever. Tremendous difficulty making out what was being said at last night’s writers’ group meeting (I refuse to call it by that silly new name – the Lost Apostrophe or whatever it is). A pity about my deafness – I miss so much. Of course, it was starting while Jenny was with me – she used to have a little moan every now and then about how loud I turned up the radio.
No one to object to that anymore. What I’d give for an hour or two of my dear wife’s gentle nagging. Of her company – in any mood. I’m tired of being told ‘It will get easier’ and ‘Time will heal’. Of course it doesn’t get easier, and who would want it to? The only thing that changes is I don’t get quite so much of a shock these days when I wake up in the morning and remember. Not quite. Still a shock, though – and even more so when I wake in the middle of a dream, as I so often seem to do.
When Jenny died, I suppose I imagined I would have perhaps two or three years on my own, and then I’d follow her. That’s what happened when my father passed on. My mother struggled on for – what was it? – eighteen months, and then succumbed to bronchitis.
It’s been eight years for me, so far, and I show no signs of succumbing. No major health problems at all and relatively few minor ones. For a chap of nearly seventy-five I’m doing remarkably well, my GP assures me.
I can’t honestly say I wish for poor health, or for death, for that matter. In spite of my faith, I’m a little afraid of the latter. Perhaps I fear that God will not accept me into heaven, after all the names I’ve called Him these last few years. On the conscious level, of course, I am assured of His forgiveness, but deep down, who knows what terrors churn? I’m made aware of some of them when I wake from those nightmares.
Enough, enough, about my pathetic self! Let me concentrate on today’s attempt at a poem. Perhaps something on the theme of Spring – though there are no signs of it today. Katy told me earlier when I visited the shop that she has daffodils in bud in her garden, but I fear they will be damaged by the incoming storms. Poor Katy. She told me, too, that her business is about to go under. I feel so much for her. She’s done wonders, keeping that little shop going against the odds. I remember it, of course, from my childhood… getting my weekly sweet ration there during and after the war. So sad that it must go. No doubt it will become a charity shop or a bargain store of some kind. And Katy – what will become of her? She was speaking last week of having to go and live with her sister and family in a crowded flat in Leeds. She’ll miss the sea, will Katy.
Perhaps that’s what I’ll write. A poem for Katy. She’ll never see it, of course. I often use my poems as prayers – a secret between God and myself. He’s not as harsh a critic as some of the group. I don’t mind on my own account, on the rare occasions I read out something I’ve written – but oh dear, the way they attack each other’s work sometimes – it frightens me.
The new woman who turned up last night – Connie? Corinne? She was the scary type. Idiotic of me to feel that way, of course, after years of encountering bishops and deans and the like, as well as some rather unsavoury types in my own congregation. But Corinne, if that’s her name, had the air of the newly-liberated woman that I must confess makes me shiver. I don’t like admitting it. I’m a feminist, if I’m allowed to call myself that, on principle, but I’m old-fashioned too. I like my women gentle and meek.
How awful that sounds! I would never dare say it aloud. Especially the phrase ‘my women’. God forgive me. If Jenny’s reading this, up there, she’ll be giving her disapproving frown.
Are you, Jenny? I tell myself you are up there, watching me, but are you, truly? Is it all just a fabrication to comfort ourselves in the darkness of the universe?
Are You there, Father God?
Has my life, my career, my profession, my vocation, been an utter waste of time? Have I done one iota of good? Should I have been a social worker or an academic? An architect? A train driver, even?
No, no. This is doing me no good. I have to hang on to what little faith remains, and to my love of words, and use them as best I can to cobble together a poem for Katy. A song for Katy, who will soon say goodbye to a huge part of her life. Katy, who has never married – why, I wonder? She would have made a wonderful mother, in my opinion, which probably does not count for much. Perhaps the right man never came along or, if he did, the timing was wrong, as it so often is. I was lucky to find Jenny when I did. Incredibly lucky that she managed to find something to love in me. I should, I know, thank God for all the wonderful years we had, rather than bemoaning the fact that they are over and done.
I have spent a lifetime as a parish priest, but I still don’t know how to be good. I know no more about prayer than I did as a five-year-old boy, begging God to save my sick puppy (sadly, He didn’t). I know no more about helping others than when, at the age of nine, I grabbed Mrs Stephenson’s basket to help her onto the bus, dropped it and broke five of her eggs.
Time to write.
No. Not quite yet. I have to add a word about young Becca. I know my hearing is bad but I can tell when people are speaking, even if I can’t make out what they say – and Becca scarcely opened her mouth at last night’s gathering. There is something wrong, I’m becoming convinced. For a while I told myself that she is shy, and of course there’s nothing wrong with that. But I sensed something deeper yesterday. Some trouble, some distress.
Is it simply that she dislikes the group? But if so, why does she come? Even in the absence of her husband, she joined us last night, which came as something of a surprise. I suppose I’d thought she simply came along because he did. I’ve never heard her speak about her own writing, let alone read anything aloud. And she never ventures an opinion on anyone else’s piece, despite Julianne’s occasional ‘chivvying’. (I dislike being chivvied by Julianne, as, I suspect, do several others. I suppose she feels it’s her job as Chair, though I’m not sure that’s correct.)
Anyway, yes. Becca. Was she simply missing her husband, Sam? I expect he was away – he often seems to go away, with that internet business of his.
Am I being a busybody, an interfering old so-and-so? What can I possibly do, anyway? Becca has other people, she must have, surely, far better placed to help her than I am, if indeed she needs any help.
No one to object to that anymore. What I’d give for an hour or two of my dear wife’s gentle nagging. Of her company – in any mood. I’m tired of being told ‘It will get easier’ and ‘Time will heal’. Of course it doesn’t get easier, and who would want it to? The only thing that changes is I don’t get quite so much of a shock these days when I wake up in the morning and remember. Not quite. Still a shock, though – and even more so when I wake in the middle of a dream, as I so often seem to do.
When Jenny died, I suppose I imagined I would have perhaps two or three years on my own, and then I’d follow her. That’s what happened when my father passed on. My mother struggled on for – what was it? – eighteen months, and then succumbed to bronchitis.
It’s been eight years for me, so far, and I show no signs of succumbing. No major health problems at all and relatively few minor ones. For a chap of nearly seventy-five I’m doing remarkably well, my GP assures me.
I can’t honestly say I wish for poor health, or for death, for that matter. In spite of my faith, I’m a little afraid of the latter. Perhaps I fear that God will not accept me into heaven, after all the names I’ve called Him these last few years. On the conscious level, of course, I am assured of His forgiveness, but deep down, who knows what terrors churn? I’m made aware of some of them when I wake from those nightmares.
Enough, enough, about my pathetic self! Let me concentrate on today’s attempt at a poem. Perhaps something on the theme of Spring – though there are no signs of it today. Katy told me earlier when I visited the shop that she has daffodils in bud in her garden, but I fear they will be damaged by the incoming storms. Poor Katy. She told me, too, that her business is about to go under. I feel so much for her. She’s done wonders, keeping that little shop going against the odds. I remember it, of course, from my childhood… getting my weekly sweet ration there during and after the war. So sad that it must go. No doubt it will become a charity shop or a bargain store of some kind. And Katy – what will become of her? She was speaking last week of having to go and live with her sister and family in a crowded flat in Leeds. She’ll miss the sea, will Katy.
Perhaps that’s what I’ll write. A poem for Katy. She’ll never see it, of course. I often use my poems as prayers – a secret between God and myself. He’s not as harsh a critic as some of the group. I don’t mind on my own account, on the rare occasions I read out something I’ve written – but oh dear, the way they attack each other’s work sometimes – it frightens me.
The new woman who turned up last night – Connie? Corinne? She was the scary type. Idiotic of me to feel that way, of course, after years of encountering bishops and deans and the like, as well as some rather unsavoury types in my own congregation. But Corinne, if that’s her name, had the air of the newly-liberated woman that I must confess makes me shiver. I don’t like admitting it. I’m a feminist, if I’m allowed to call myself that, on principle, but I’m old-fashioned too. I like my women gentle and meek.
How awful that sounds! I would never dare say it aloud. Especially the phrase ‘my women’. God forgive me. If Jenny’s reading this, up there, she’ll be giving her disapproving frown.
Are you, Jenny? I tell myself you are up there, watching me, but are you, truly? Is it all just a fabrication to comfort ourselves in the darkness of the universe?
Are You there, Father God?
Has my life, my career, my profession, my vocation, been an utter waste of time? Have I done one iota of good? Should I have been a social worker or an academic? An architect? A train driver, even?
No, no. This is doing me no good. I have to hang on to what little faith remains, and to my love of words, and use them as best I can to cobble together a poem for Katy. A song for Katy, who will soon say goodbye to a huge part of her life. Katy, who has never married – why, I wonder? She would have made a wonderful mother, in my opinion, which probably does not count for much. Perhaps the right man never came along or, if he did, the timing was wrong, as it so often is. I was lucky to find Jenny when I did. Incredibly lucky that she managed to find something to love in me. I should, I know, thank God for all the wonderful years we had, rather than bemoaning the fact that they are over and done.
I have spent a lifetime as a parish priest, but I still don’t know how to be good. I know no more about prayer than I did as a five-year-old boy, begging God to save my sick puppy (sadly, He didn’t). I know no more about helping others than when, at the age of nine, I grabbed Mrs Stephenson’s basket to help her onto the bus, dropped it and broke five of her eggs.
Time to write.
No. Not quite yet. I have to add a word about young Becca. I know my hearing is bad but I can tell when people are speaking, even if I can’t make out what they say – and Becca scarcely opened her mouth at last night’s gathering. There is something wrong, I’m becoming convinced. For a while I told myself that she is shy, and of course there’s nothing wrong with that. But I sensed something deeper yesterday. Some trouble, some distress.
Is it simply that she dislikes the group? But if so, why does she come? Even in the absence of her husband, she joined us last night, which came as something of a surprise. I suppose I’d thought she simply came along because he did. I’ve never heard her speak about her own writing, let alone read anything aloud. And she never ventures an opinion on anyone else’s piece, despite Julianne’s occasional ‘chivvying’. (I dislike being chivvied by Julianne, as, I suspect, do several others. I suppose she feels it’s her job as Chair, though I’m not sure that’s correct.)
Anyway, yes. Becca. Was she simply missing her husband, Sam? I expect he was away – he often seems to go away, with that internet business of his.
Am I being a busybody, an interfering old so-and-so? What can I possibly do, anyway? Becca has other people, she must have, surely, far better placed to help her than I am, if indeed she needs any help.
About the Author
Rosalie Warren was once a university lecturer, specialising in Artificial Intelligence and Natural Language Processing. But her earliest love was books and stories, and since taking early retirement ten years ago she has been following her dream of writing and publishing. For details of her publications for adults and children, including science fiction and romantic suspense, see http://srg521.wix.com/mybooks and https://www.facebook.com/RosalieWarrenAuthor/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/