Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FIVE: January 2015 – Julianne Matthews
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FIVE: January 2015 – Julianne Matthews
Perhaps the time has come for me to resign. I’m really not enjoying it anymore – chairing the Lost Apostrophe. I feel something like a lost apostrophe myself, to be honest. Or a lost writer, or maybe a lost soul. No one seems to need me these days. My old self, the harassed mother trying to find a moment’s peace, whispers to me down the years, ‘You lucky thing. What I’d give for half a day of feeling that no one needs me and the only person I have to worry about is myself…’ But that’s it, of course. Half a day of it would be wonderful. It’s the thought of living the rest of my life, feeling outdated and outmoded and no use to anyone or anything, that gets me down.
No man to make demands on me… to expect food and company and solace of all kinds. No children to grab my attention, wanting meals and school runs and stories, excursions and games and trips to the doctor’s and dentist’s and football practice. The washing machine runs barely once a week now and the floor never needs hoovering. I gaze at its pristine surface, finding myself longing for a pile of crumbs, just to reassure me I’m not alone.
I sit at my laptop and stare at the screen. Finally I have time… time for the new novel that’s been simmering inside me for so long. Time to release those burgeoning personalities, give them free rein, let them take me where they will.
I wait for them. They are there, I know they are. I sense their shadowy presence, but they won’t come out to play. They need something from me to entice them and I no longer know what it is.
I’m turning into an old fuddy-duddy prissy-wissy grammar-pot (I refuse to call myself a ‘nerd’). Telling people where to put their commas and apostrophes. Most of the time they don’t want to be told, but even those that do… is this really all I’m good for? All that creativity, stuffed into a sad little inkwell (that dates me, doesn’t it?) of correctness. Where are my bold ambitions of yesteryear? What happened to the ‘big’ novel I was always going to write when the boys were at school, and then once they moved up to secondary, and then when they went to university…?
Of course, life got in the way to some extent. If John and I had stayed together… Would that have made a difference? Probably, if I’m honest, not. I’ve no regrets, anyway, about leaving him. Perhaps if Joe had been a more ‘conventional’ boy? Better-behaved is what I really mean. If he’d avoided all that trouble with the police. And with girls. If he’d found a job when he slid out of university. If he’d never met up with Miri. If only…
I could feel her eyes on me, throughout last night’s meeting. Blaming me – or, if not quite blaming, then holding me responsible. As indeed I am, at least in part. His mother, after all. The one who spent all those hours with him, building Lego houses and reading books. I even used to play goalie for him in the garden, when big brother Gregory lost interest in football. All those meetings at the school. All those times I tried to talk to him, get him to open up about what was really troubling him, because something was, and I knew it all the time.
For all the good it did, I might as well have gone back to work and eased our family finances a bit. Joe never responded to me. Perhaps it was John he really needed to talk to, but John was so rarely there, or when he was there he was ‘recovering’ from his oh-so-arduous job at the bank.
No point being bitter, I tell myself, though sometimes it’s hard not to be. I get a glimpse of myself every now and then through someone else’s eyes and I see me turning slowly, day by day, into a twisted old soul, like Mrs Baird down the road when I was a kid, the one we called a witch. Never smiled, constant frown, hunched over… looking back, I bet she was in terrible pain. We’d no idea. I understand her a bit better now. Personally I would never shout at children passing in the street, but her life had probably been a hell of a lot worse than mine. She must have been horribly lonely, too. I’m sorry, Mrs Baird, for hating and fearing you, I really am.
I do try to be kind. Only ever seem to manage it with Katy, who knows me well enough to see through just about any face I happen to be wearing. Wish I could do more to help. Proud creature that she is, she’d never accept money from me and I don’t have much to give, though I suppose if I put this house up for sale and got myself a single-bedroomed flat…
And then there’d be nowhere for Joe, who in spite of everything needs a home to come back to.
That’s enough about me. I need to think. If I’m going to resign, I need someone lined up to take over. It would have been Katy if it hadn’t been for her troubles. No point asking her now. Who else? Tony’s been coming to the group for a long time, but he’s not really… what’s the word? Committed? Not quite. He writes, which is more than some of them do. He reads his work aloud from time to time. But you don’t get the feeling he’s very interested in anyone else. Rarely comments on anyone’s work. Even when you put him on the spot and ask him, which I’ve been known to do (the one-time teacher in me coming out), he just gives that little shrug. As though he doesn’t have anything useful to say. Or he can’t be bothered? Or he despises us all so much… But if that’s true, why does he come along at all?
No, Tony wouldn’t do. What about Eva? Such a lovely young woman – the complete opposite of Tony in many ways. Really listens when someone reads. Doesn’t give false praise (which Katy, I feel, is sometimes wont to do), but manages to combine a suggestion for improvement with a fair dollop of encouragement. She’s a teacher too, you see. She’s young – but does that matter? Can’t see any of our older crowd being willing to take up the reins. Certainly not snooty Helen. And Davie – to be honest I’m beginning to worry about Davie. Touch of encroaching dementia? I can’t help wondering. His last few stories have all been exactly the same, apart from the odd name change. Yet he tells us they are new. What’s going on there? I wonder if I should talk to Will.
Dear Will. He’d make an excellent Chair, of course he would. Kindest man on earth. But I know he wouldn’t do it, because I asked him two years ago, when I was under all that stress and I just couldn’t carry on. He was sympathetic – he was lovely – but he said he couldn’t take the responsibility, not any more. Heaven knows why – it’s hardly the same as being a parish priest, which he did for all those years. He suggested we had a different Chair each meeting, which would never work, of course. So Katy took over for a while, until I made myself come back.
And, of course, there’s young Rud. Well. I’ve always liked his writing, I have to say… even though murder with fast cars is definitely not my preferred genre. But that announcement he made… an agent! In these difficult times, it surprised me, I must say. I want to be pleased for him. I’m doing my best to be pleased for him, and I hope my smile was warm and genuine, because at least two-thirds of me truly feels that way. One-third, anyway. No, make that a half.
I shouldn’t be jealous, I really shouldn’t. I’ve had my turn. I had an agent, a very good one, for years and years and years, until times got so bad she was forced to give up on me, and I on her. It was mutual. But I thought we were friends and I’m very disappointed to have hardly heard from her in the past nine years, since we split. Ah well. I’m sure she has a lot going on, in both her life and her work. No doubt she has exciting new authors to represent. Like Rud, although his agent is someone different, I’m most relieved to say. Bettina Brand. I looked her up when I got home. One of these blond young women who looks about seventeen, though she must be older than that.
Rud is clearly besotted with young Ms Brand. Doesn’t bode well, in my opinion, but there you go. If she can get him a good publishing deal, that’s wonderful, but I can’t help thinking he might be hoping for more. And, of course, one should never count one’s chickens until a contract’s been vetted, signed and sealed. Told him that, but it didn’t go down too well. I’m seen as an old sourpuss in that group. A jaded ex-author – which I suppose is what I am.
I advised him to get the contract checked with the Society of Authors, but of course he’s not a member and doesn’t see the need to be. Not that he even has a contract yet, it turns out. Personally, I’d have waited to share the news until things were more definite. Instead, he came in all excited, like a child.
Of course he did. Just as I was, all those years ago.
Right. That’s enough procrastination. I’m going to start the new novel – now.
No man to make demands on me… to expect food and company and solace of all kinds. No children to grab my attention, wanting meals and school runs and stories, excursions and games and trips to the doctor’s and dentist’s and football practice. The washing machine runs barely once a week now and the floor never needs hoovering. I gaze at its pristine surface, finding myself longing for a pile of crumbs, just to reassure me I’m not alone.
I sit at my laptop and stare at the screen. Finally I have time… time for the new novel that’s been simmering inside me for so long. Time to release those burgeoning personalities, give them free rein, let them take me where they will.
I wait for them. They are there, I know they are. I sense their shadowy presence, but they won’t come out to play. They need something from me to entice them and I no longer know what it is.
I’m turning into an old fuddy-duddy prissy-wissy grammar-pot (I refuse to call myself a ‘nerd’). Telling people where to put their commas and apostrophes. Most of the time they don’t want to be told, but even those that do… is this really all I’m good for? All that creativity, stuffed into a sad little inkwell (that dates me, doesn’t it?) of correctness. Where are my bold ambitions of yesteryear? What happened to the ‘big’ novel I was always going to write when the boys were at school, and then once they moved up to secondary, and then when they went to university…?
Of course, life got in the way to some extent. If John and I had stayed together… Would that have made a difference? Probably, if I’m honest, not. I’ve no regrets, anyway, about leaving him. Perhaps if Joe had been a more ‘conventional’ boy? Better-behaved is what I really mean. If he’d avoided all that trouble with the police. And with girls. If he’d found a job when he slid out of university. If he’d never met up with Miri. If only…
I could feel her eyes on me, throughout last night’s meeting. Blaming me – or, if not quite blaming, then holding me responsible. As indeed I am, at least in part. His mother, after all. The one who spent all those hours with him, building Lego houses and reading books. I even used to play goalie for him in the garden, when big brother Gregory lost interest in football. All those meetings at the school. All those times I tried to talk to him, get him to open up about what was really troubling him, because something was, and I knew it all the time.
For all the good it did, I might as well have gone back to work and eased our family finances a bit. Joe never responded to me. Perhaps it was John he really needed to talk to, but John was so rarely there, or when he was there he was ‘recovering’ from his oh-so-arduous job at the bank.
No point being bitter, I tell myself, though sometimes it’s hard not to be. I get a glimpse of myself every now and then through someone else’s eyes and I see me turning slowly, day by day, into a twisted old soul, like Mrs Baird down the road when I was a kid, the one we called a witch. Never smiled, constant frown, hunched over… looking back, I bet she was in terrible pain. We’d no idea. I understand her a bit better now. Personally I would never shout at children passing in the street, but her life had probably been a hell of a lot worse than mine. She must have been horribly lonely, too. I’m sorry, Mrs Baird, for hating and fearing you, I really am.
I do try to be kind. Only ever seem to manage it with Katy, who knows me well enough to see through just about any face I happen to be wearing. Wish I could do more to help. Proud creature that she is, she’d never accept money from me and I don’t have much to give, though I suppose if I put this house up for sale and got myself a single-bedroomed flat…
And then there’d be nowhere for Joe, who in spite of everything needs a home to come back to.
That’s enough about me. I need to think. If I’m going to resign, I need someone lined up to take over. It would have been Katy if it hadn’t been for her troubles. No point asking her now. Who else? Tony’s been coming to the group for a long time, but he’s not really… what’s the word? Committed? Not quite. He writes, which is more than some of them do. He reads his work aloud from time to time. But you don’t get the feeling he’s very interested in anyone else. Rarely comments on anyone’s work. Even when you put him on the spot and ask him, which I’ve been known to do (the one-time teacher in me coming out), he just gives that little shrug. As though he doesn’t have anything useful to say. Or he can’t be bothered? Or he despises us all so much… But if that’s true, why does he come along at all?
No, Tony wouldn’t do. What about Eva? Such a lovely young woman – the complete opposite of Tony in many ways. Really listens when someone reads. Doesn’t give false praise (which Katy, I feel, is sometimes wont to do), but manages to combine a suggestion for improvement with a fair dollop of encouragement. She’s a teacher too, you see. She’s young – but does that matter? Can’t see any of our older crowd being willing to take up the reins. Certainly not snooty Helen. And Davie – to be honest I’m beginning to worry about Davie. Touch of encroaching dementia? I can’t help wondering. His last few stories have all been exactly the same, apart from the odd name change. Yet he tells us they are new. What’s going on there? I wonder if I should talk to Will.
Dear Will. He’d make an excellent Chair, of course he would. Kindest man on earth. But I know he wouldn’t do it, because I asked him two years ago, when I was under all that stress and I just couldn’t carry on. He was sympathetic – he was lovely – but he said he couldn’t take the responsibility, not any more. Heaven knows why – it’s hardly the same as being a parish priest, which he did for all those years. He suggested we had a different Chair each meeting, which would never work, of course. So Katy took over for a while, until I made myself come back.
And, of course, there’s young Rud. Well. I’ve always liked his writing, I have to say… even though murder with fast cars is definitely not my preferred genre. But that announcement he made… an agent! In these difficult times, it surprised me, I must say. I want to be pleased for him. I’m doing my best to be pleased for him, and I hope my smile was warm and genuine, because at least two-thirds of me truly feels that way. One-third, anyway. No, make that a half.
I shouldn’t be jealous, I really shouldn’t. I’ve had my turn. I had an agent, a very good one, for years and years and years, until times got so bad she was forced to give up on me, and I on her. It was mutual. But I thought we were friends and I’m very disappointed to have hardly heard from her in the past nine years, since we split. Ah well. I’m sure she has a lot going on, in both her life and her work. No doubt she has exciting new authors to represent. Like Rud, although his agent is someone different, I’m most relieved to say. Bettina Brand. I looked her up when I got home. One of these blond young women who looks about seventeen, though she must be older than that.
Rud is clearly besotted with young Ms Brand. Doesn’t bode well, in my opinion, but there you go. If she can get him a good publishing deal, that’s wonderful, but I can’t help thinking he might be hoping for more. And, of course, one should never count one’s chickens until a contract’s been vetted, signed and sealed. Told him that, but it didn’t go down too well. I’m seen as an old sourpuss in that group. A jaded ex-author – which I suppose is what I am.
I advised him to get the contract checked with the Society of Authors, but of course he’s not a member and doesn’t see the need to be. Not that he even has a contract yet, it turns out. Personally, I’d have waited to share the news until things were more definite. Instead, he came in all excited, like a child.
Of course he did. Just as I was, all those years ago.
Right. That’s enough procrastination. I’m going to start the new novel – now.
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/