Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE TWO: January 2015 – Corinna Ramage
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE TWO: January 2015 – Corinna Ramage
Well, that was interesting. More so than I expected, though I must confess I didn’t expect too much. My first meeting of the group that calls himself Lost Apostrophe, a name I rather like. It certainly beats the Castlehaven Writing Group, which I understand was its original name.
A name, however, is not enough, and I fear that most, if not all, of these people are far too stuck in the mud for my purposes. Or perhaps stuck in the sand would be more apt, given their seaside habitation. Only one of them showed any interest at all in my indie publishing ventures. A very snooty woman called Julianne said, ‘Oh, I see, so you self-publish,’ with all the respect she might have shown a dead slug scraped off the sole of her shoe. Of course, I’m used to this kind of ignorance from my family and so-called friends, but I would not have expected it from the woman who is apparently the Chair of the group. I can see it’s going to be hard work.
A few pairs of ears pricked up, however, when I announced my genre. Julianne, I was delighted to observe, turned a mild shade of puce. Several of the men (and I’m pleased to say there were some men), pricked up their… well, you get the idea. Pity they are all so old. There was only one man under forty there and he was the annoying sod who’d just been picked up, he told us, by an agent. I certainly wasn’t expecting that. I gave him the usual warnings but of course he wasn’t listening. Away on Cloud 9. I remember it well from my brief encounter with the agent who showed a brief interest in me before proclaiming that my work was too ‘sordid’ for the publisher she had in mind. Sordid! Of course, this was back in the day, years before Fifty Shades and the rest. I was ahead of my time. But, as I explained to the members of Apostrophe, I have no need of agents now. Authors are doing it for themselves, that’s the message, though some of us, admittedly, with more success than others.
They could have shown a bit more interest in a professional, published author visiting their group. Oh yes, I know, some of them have been published too, including the awful Julianne, back in the seventies or eighties or some such era. But they were all too busy congratulating the young man with the agent. Not that he’s been signed up yet, I understand, so the rejoicing may be premature. I think he’s called Rod, or possibly Rob. He works at the local garage and has apparently been writing for years. The others all think he’s wonderful. Maybe he is. Must be pretty good if he’s got an agent interested. Good-looking guy, too, in a dark, sultry sort of way. Too young for me, sadly. I saw a sturdy woman in her thirties – Eve? Eva? – looking at him in a predatory sort of way. She’s not much to look at, in my humble opinion, but she has youth on her side.
The only other fanciable (possibly) bloke was Tony, an ex-journalist. Red hair. Used to work on the local rag, took early retirement last year. Got the impression he doesn’t have much time for the airy fairy stuff that some of them write, e.g. Eva’s poetry. Didn’t give me a second glance either, which was a bit disappointing. Maybe he’s happily married or shacked up.
The only other guys were both ancient. Davie is in his nineties and writes about his childhood in the thirties. Friendly and interested in my work, which made a change from the rest. But I’m not reduced to scraping the barrel quite as low as that, just yet. The other old man is called Will. He’s in his seventies, by the look of him, and he’s a retired vicar who told me over coffee that he has lost his faith, since his wife died. Crikey. Can’t have been very strong to start with is all I can say. Just goes to confirm my views on religion, which I won’t get started on here.
Will writes poetry too. He read a poem he’d written and even I, not a poet by any stretch, could tell it was rather good. Didn’t take the praise of the others very well, however. Just shook his head and said he hoped ‘His Lordship in the sky’ was listening. Not a very reverential way to refer to God if you’re an ex-vicar, but I can see where he’s coming from. The poem was about his wife. I understand that all his poems are about his wife (that’s enough to move even hard-hearted me).
The rest of them… hmm. Katy, a large lady who brought a cake (I refused a slice, of course), and told us that her shop is about to be sold to pay her debts. Katy clearly comfort eats, the way I used to, after John. Anyway. She submits short stories to women’s mags and is occasionally successful. Wins the odd small-time competition, too.
A couple of younger women – the first being a very shy creature called Becca who barely raised her eyes from the table and spoke no more than three words throughout. I wondered what I’d done at first to frighten her, until I realised that she’s the same with everyone.
And finally – a very beautiful young woman who clearly originates from France. Long, pale, flowing hair and a perfect face. Lovely figure too. Doing a PhD at York University in something to do with languages or linguistics; currently taking a taking a year out to ‘recuperate’, though she didn’t say what from. Named Miri. Writes… well, she read half a page of something clearly experimental in form. Didn’t understand a word of it and neither, apparently, did anyone else, though they nodded and tried to say appropriate things, except for Tony who was rather unkind.
I read a bit of mine, right at the end. Had to push for it, which I didn’t like as I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, but it was obvious no one was going to ask so I volunteered. Hmm. Julianne turned an even deeper shade of puce. Heaven knows why – a woman of her age should have heard it all by now, and if she hasn’t it’s time she did. Becca made a strange, strangled sort of noise but nothing more. Miri nodded and smiled. Tony… well, I was hoping for a reaction but as I said before, he didn’t respond (of course, he might be gay. Yes, I bet that’s it… Should have thought of that). Davie raised one eyebrow. Will is so deaf I don’t think he heard much. Eva blushed and said that erotica’s not her thing. Katy told me it was lovely and she’d really enjoyed hearing my work, which was very gratifying but I’m not sure how much notice to take, as she said pretty much the same thing about everyone’s contribution.
Two people were missing, I was told. Becca’s husband Sam (Becca has a husband? That’s a surprise) and an elderly woman called Helen who writes science fiction and was apparently a codebreaker at Bletchley Park in World War II (can she really be as old as that?).
I shall go again, if only to meet an elderly woman who worked at Bletchley Park and now writes sci-fi.
A name, however, is not enough, and I fear that most, if not all, of these people are far too stuck in the mud for my purposes. Or perhaps stuck in the sand would be more apt, given their seaside habitation. Only one of them showed any interest at all in my indie publishing ventures. A very snooty woman called Julianne said, ‘Oh, I see, so you self-publish,’ with all the respect she might have shown a dead slug scraped off the sole of her shoe. Of course, I’m used to this kind of ignorance from my family and so-called friends, but I would not have expected it from the woman who is apparently the Chair of the group. I can see it’s going to be hard work.
A few pairs of ears pricked up, however, when I announced my genre. Julianne, I was delighted to observe, turned a mild shade of puce. Several of the men (and I’m pleased to say there were some men), pricked up their… well, you get the idea. Pity they are all so old. There was only one man under forty there and he was the annoying sod who’d just been picked up, he told us, by an agent. I certainly wasn’t expecting that. I gave him the usual warnings but of course he wasn’t listening. Away on Cloud 9. I remember it well from my brief encounter with the agent who showed a brief interest in me before proclaiming that my work was too ‘sordid’ for the publisher she had in mind. Sordid! Of course, this was back in the day, years before Fifty Shades and the rest. I was ahead of my time. But, as I explained to the members of Apostrophe, I have no need of agents now. Authors are doing it for themselves, that’s the message, though some of us, admittedly, with more success than others.
They could have shown a bit more interest in a professional, published author visiting their group. Oh yes, I know, some of them have been published too, including the awful Julianne, back in the seventies or eighties or some such era. But they were all too busy congratulating the young man with the agent. Not that he’s been signed up yet, I understand, so the rejoicing may be premature. I think he’s called Rod, or possibly Rob. He works at the local garage and has apparently been writing for years. The others all think he’s wonderful. Maybe he is. Must be pretty good if he’s got an agent interested. Good-looking guy, too, in a dark, sultry sort of way. Too young for me, sadly. I saw a sturdy woman in her thirties – Eve? Eva? – looking at him in a predatory sort of way. She’s not much to look at, in my humble opinion, but she has youth on her side.
The only other fanciable (possibly) bloke was Tony, an ex-journalist. Red hair. Used to work on the local rag, took early retirement last year. Got the impression he doesn’t have much time for the airy fairy stuff that some of them write, e.g. Eva’s poetry. Didn’t give me a second glance either, which was a bit disappointing. Maybe he’s happily married or shacked up.
The only other guys were both ancient. Davie is in his nineties and writes about his childhood in the thirties. Friendly and interested in my work, which made a change from the rest. But I’m not reduced to scraping the barrel quite as low as that, just yet. The other old man is called Will. He’s in his seventies, by the look of him, and he’s a retired vicar who told me over coffee that he has lost his faith, since his wife died. Crikey. Can’t have been very strong to start with is all I can say. Just goes to confirm my views on religion, which I won’t get started on here.
Will writes poetry too. He read a poem he’d written and even I, not a poet by any stretch, could tell it was rather good. Didn’t take the praise of the others very well, however. Just shook his head and said he hoped ‘His Lordship in the sky’ was listening. Not a very reverential way to refer to God if you’re an ex-vicar, but I can see where he’s coming from. The poem was about his wife. I understand that all his poems are about his wife (that’s enough to move even hard-hearted me).
The rest of them… hmm. Katy, a large lady who brought a cake (I refused a slice, of course), and told us that her shop is about to be sold to pay her debts. Katy clearly comfort eats, the way I used to, after John. Anyway. She submits short stories to women’s mags and is occasionally successful. Wins the odd small-time competition, too.
A couple of younger women – the first being a very shy creature called Becca who barely raised her eyes from the table and spoke no more than three words throughout. I wondered what I’d done at first to frighten her, until I realised that she’s the same with everyone.
And finally – a very beautiful young woman who clearly originates from France. Long, pale, flowing hair and a perfect face. Lovely figure too. Doing a PhD at York University in something to do with languages or linguistics; currently taking a taking a year out to ‘recuperate’, though she didn’t say what from. Named Miri. Writes… well, she read half a page of something clearly experimental in form. Didn’t understand a word of it and neither, apparently, did anyone else, though they nodded and tried to say appropriate things, except for Tony who was rather unkind.
I read a bit of mine, right at the end. Had to push for it, which I didn’t like as I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, but it was obvious no one was going to ask so I volunteered. Hmm. Julianne turned an even deeper shade of puce. Heaven knows why – a woman of her age should have heard it all by now, and if she hasn’t it’s time she did. Becca made a strange, strangled sort of noise but nothing more. Miri nodded and smiled. Tony… well, I was hoping for a reaction but as I said before, he didn’t respond (of course, he might be gay. Yes, I bet that’s it… Should have thought of that). Davie raised one eyebrow. Will is so deaf I don’t think he heard much. Eva blushed and said that erotica’s not her thing. Katy told me it was lovely and she’d really enjoyed hearing my work, which was very gratifying but I’m not sure how much notice to take, as she said pretty much the same thing about everyone’s contribution.
Two people were missing, I was told. Becca’s husband Sam (Becca has a husband? That’s a surprise) and an elderly woman called Helen who writes science fiction and was apparently a codebreaker at Bletchley Park in World War II (can she really be as old as that?).
I shall go again, if only to meet an elderly woman who worked at Bletchley Park and now writes sci-fi.
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/