Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE ONE: January 2015 – Evalina Carter
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE ONE: January 2015 – Evalina Carter
Got the shock of my life last night – my writing life, anyway. Rud, mate of many years, creator of all those amazingly brilliant fast-car thrillers (not that I’ve read any, but I’m sure they are amazing, from the bits I’ve heard him read aloud at meetings) – our dear Rud with all his terror of opening his mouth but amazing ability with a pen (well, not a pen, a keyboard, but pen sounds better) – Godalming, I’ve used ‘amazing’ three times so far in this sentence, but this is just for me so who cares? Rud has only gone and got himself an agent!
Yes, an agent. A London one with a posh name and long blond hair and a Barbie figure and the works. I know all that because I looked her up. Did a degree in English Literature at the University of Oxford, no less, then worked a few years for an educational publisher, then worked for another agent, a big-name one, and has recently set up on her own. Ticks all the boxes. She’s the genuine article. My friend Rud has made it – or he’s well on the way – and it’s no more than he deserves.
Christchurch, though, you should have seen Julianne’s face. Not so much as green as a sort of ghostly turquoise with silver highlights. I feel sorry for that woman. She’s had her day in the sun (cliché alert number 19) but she won’t let go. Won’t move over and let someone younger take her place. Sad. Hope I’m not like that when I’m sixty-two or however old she is. Probably will be, if I’m honest. Certainly will be, if I’ve had nothing of my own published by then.
It was interesting, looking round the faces of the group when Rud announced his news. You’d think no one could be jealous of lovely, unassuming Rud, but if you think that, you don’t know the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group.
Writing Group, please note, imaginary reader, not Writers Group, for the simple reason that we couldn’t decide where (or whether) to put the apostrophe. Godalming, what a night that was. Julianne, who since the demise of her writing career is now a proofreader and editor and knows all there is to know about punctuation (sad), was screaming blue… – no, that’s a cliché too far. Was screaming, that will do. ‘After the “s”,’ she shrieked (or was it before – I can’t remember and I don’t bloody care. Need to find a place name for ‘bloody’ – I yelled it at a church meeting last week and got the Reverend Jonah’s blackest frown… Bloodsville – is that a place?)
Anyway, yes, she shrieked it at top volume and Katy, who always cheers us up with chocolates from her shop, yelled back at her, ‘No, it’s before,’ (or after or whatever it was), and the rest of us chimed in, most of us not knowing or caring whether it was before or after (or, as Tony, our journalist, insisted, no apostrophe at all), but enjoying the fight.
We don’t get many fights at the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group. Not literal fights anyway. OK, this one was not quite literal but it wasn’t far off. If Davie hadn’t restrained Julianne by grabbing her hand, she’d have probably biffed Katy, who is actually Julianne’s longstanding friend, or was, under the chin.
One of the comments I get at the Apostrophe is that my sentences are too long. Too many words, too much punctuation, too many brackets, commas, semi-colons, everything else. I can’t see it myself (there, see, a short sentence, or it would have been if I hadn’t opened a bracket and just typed a whole lot more). See what I mean? Ha! But look at that! Three shorties in a row, just to show I can. Trouble is, I hardly ever do.
You might think, being an ex-teacher of primary school children and now a playgroup leader, I’d communicate in a clear, succinct way such as would befit (nice!) my young pupils. Doesn’t seem to work like that, however. Perhaps it’s a reaction to my day job – all those board books – but when I’m off duty, as it were, I transmogrify (even nicer!) into an alter ego who thinks she’s aiming at the Man Booker.
As if. My little joke. No, what I mainly write are poems – and they are mostly poems for kids, though some adults say they like them, including my dear friend Rud. I don’t think he’s just being a mate when he says that. Hope not, anyway. The likes of Julianne and Tony and possibly this new Corinna person who turned up last night are toffee-nosed (cliché 563) about my poetry scribblings, but I don’t care. Katy likes them, but Katy likes everything – she’d be a gift to any writing group. Even though we all know she likes everything, we still love to get her enthusiastic comments on our stuff. And her chocolates. Such a pity her business is about to go down the pan. Wish there was something I could do to help.
Back to the point of this diary entry – Rud. Rud the splendid, Rud the future bestselling author, the overnight success. My dear, dear friend and… no, there’s no point writing this diary if I don’t tell the truth. I was going to say ‘lover’ but that’s fantasy-land. He’s not. And probably never will be, now he’s met the amazing Bettina Brand. For Bettina is truly everything I am not, like slim and pale and blond and an Oxford MA and a literary agent… and I suspect Rud is already nine-tenths in love with her. He blushed when he said her name and it wasn’t just a Rud-every-time-he-speaks blush but a proper blush like I would do myself. It was an ‘I’m in love with a beautiful woman and she loves my work and maybe she loves me’ kind of blush.
Which is where my own complexion starts to turn a nasty shade of green, though in my case more bilious and less sparkly than silver-topped Julianne’s. Because this young woman can probably give my darling Rud everything he wants and needs, including a publishing deal (maybe an auction, who knows), a sizeable advance (rare as they are these days, I’m told) and masses of publicity. And love (another shortie!). And beautiful kids. Not that I can’t give him love and beautiful kids. Well, maybe not quite as beautiful, if I was their mum. But still beautiful, at least to us. Though I may never get the chance now.
I’m trying not to mind, I really am. Rud is my friend and that will remain the case, whatever happens, as long as he wants it to, and I hope he always will. Rud’s not the type to ditch his friends when success and a blond bombshell come knocking on his door.
Sniff (shortie! – oh sod it, who cares?). I’ll have to stop writing now. I need a tissue and I have to go to bed – work tomorrow.
Dearest Rud, sleep well. God protect you from the big wide world and all its nastiness. You’ll be able to leave Jim’s garage soon and get that oil off your hands once and for all. And hey, well done!
Yes, an agent. A London one with a posh name and long blond hair and a Barbie figure and the works. I know all that because I looked her up. Did a degree in English Literature at the University of Oxford, no less, then worked a few years for an educational publisher, then worked for another agent, a big-name one, and has recently set up on her own. Ticks all the boxes. She’s the genuine article. My friend Rud has made it – or he’s well on the way – and it’s no more than he deserves.
Christchurch, though, you should have seen Julianne’s face. Not so much as green as a sort of ghostly turquoise with silver highlights. I feel sorry for that woman. She’s had her day in the sun (cliché alert number 19) but she won’t let go. Won’t move over and let someone younger take her place. Sad. Hope I’m not like that when I’m sixty-two or however old she is. Probably will be, if I’m honest. Certainly will be, if I’ve had nothing of my own published by then.
It was interesting, looking round the faces of the group when Rud announced his news. You’d think no one could be jealous of lovely, unassuming Rud, but if you think that, you don’t know the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group.
Writing Group, please note, imaginary reader, not Writers Group, for the simple reason that we couldn’t decide where (or whether) to put the apostrophe. Godalming, what a night that was. Julianne, who since the demise of her writing career is now a proofreader and editor and knows all there is to know about punctuation (sad), was screaming blue… – no, that’s a cliché too far. Was screaming, that will do. ‘After the “s”,’ she shrieked (or was it before – I can’t remember and I don’t bloody care. Need to find a place name for ‘bloody’ – I yelled it at a church meeting last week and got the Reverend Jonah’s blackest frown… Bloodsville – is that a place?)
Anyway, yes, she shrieked it at top volume and Katy, who always cheers us up with chocolates from her shop, yelled back at her, ‘No, it’s before,’ (or after or whatever it was), and the rest of us chimed in, most of us not knowing or caring whether it was before or after (or, as Tony, our journalist, insisted, no apostrophe at all), but enjoying the fight.
We don’t get many fights at the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group. Not literal fights anyway. OK, this one was not quite literal but it wasn’t far off. If Davie hadn’t restrained Julianne by grabbing her hand, she’d have probably biffed Katy, who is actually Julianne’s longstanding friend, or was, under the chin.
One of the comments I get at the Apostrophe is that my sentences are too long. Too many words, too much punctuation, too many brackets, commas, semi-colons, everything else. I can’t see it myself (there, see, a short sentence, or it would have been if I hadn’t opened a bracket and just typed a whole lot more). See what I mean? Ha! But look at that! Three shorties in a row, just to show I can. Trouble is, I hardly ever do.
You might think, being an ex-teacher of primary school children and now a playgroup leader, I’d communicate in a clear, succinct way such as would befit (nice!) my young pupils. Doesn’t seem to work like that, however. Perhaps it’s a reaction to my day job – all those board books – but when I’m off duty, as it were, I transmogrify (even nicer!) into an alter ego who thinks she’s aiming at the Man Booker.
As if. My little joke. No, what I mainly write are poems – and they are mostly poems for kids, though some adults say they like them, including my dear friend Rud. I don’t think he’s just being a mate when he says that. Hope not, anyway. The likes of Julianne and Tony and possibly this new Corinna person who turned up last night are toffee-nosed (cliché 563) about my poetry scribblings, but I don’t care. Katy likes them, but Katy likes everything – she’d be a gift to any writing group. Even though we all know she likes everything, we still love to get her enthusiastic comments on our stuff. And her chocolates. Such a pity her business is about to go down the pan. Wish there was something I could do to help.
Back to the point of this diary entry – Rud. Rud the splendid, Rud the future bestselling author, the overnight success. My dear, dear friend and… no, there’s no point writing this diary if I don’t tell the truth. I was going to say ‘lover’ but that’s fantasy-land. He’s not. And probably never will be, now he’s met the amazing Bettina Brand. For Bettina is truly everything I am not, like slim and pale and blond and an Oxford MA and a literary agent… and I suspect Rud is already nine-tenths in love with her. He blushed when he said her name and it wasn’t just a Rud-every-time-he-speaks blush but a proper blush like I would do myself. It was an ‘I’m in love with a beautiful woman and she loves my work and maybe she loves me’ kind of blush.
Which is where my own complexion starts to turn a nasty shade of green, though in my case more bilious and less sparkly than silver-topped Julianne’s. Because this young woman can probably give my darling Rud everything he wants and needs, including a publishing deal (maybe an auction, who knows), a sizeable advance (rare as they are these days, I’m told) and masses of publicity. And love (another shortie!). And beautiful kids. Not that I can’t give him love and beautiful kids. Well, maybe not quite as beautiful, if I was their mum. But still beautiful, at least to us. Though I may never get the chance now.
I’m trying not to mind, I really am. Rud is my friend and that will remain the case, whatever happens, as long as he wants it to, and I hope he always will. Rud’s not the type to ditch his friends when success and a blond bombshell come knocking on his door.
Sniff (shortie! – oh sod it, who cares?). I’ll have to stop writing now. I need a tissue and I have to go to bed – work tomorrow.
Dearest Rud, sleep well. God protect you from the big wide world and all its nastiness. You’ll be able to leave Jim’s garage soon and get that oil off your hands once and for all. And hey, well done!
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/