Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE EIGHT: January 2015 – Helen Doughty
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE EIGHT: January 2015 – Helen Doughty
I really don’t know why I bother to go to the writing group. They all think I’m snooty and stand-off-ish, I’m sure they do. As though I can help my voice. But Queen’s English is frowned upon nowadays, as though those of us who speak it are somehow putting on an act. Of course, some may be, but I speak this way because it’s the way I’ve always spoken and I’m much too old to change.
If I were to write something, it would help. Julianne asks me, almost every week. And, of course, I try. I’ve been trying for the past hour, sitting here in my tiny sitting room. I have a beautiful plan for my latest novel, just as I have a beautiful plan for the seven or eight that precede it. Unfortunately, the plans are all I have. I write my synopsis, perfect the sequence of events, make character notes… and then I stop. I simply can’t go any further.
I’ve been this way for almost nine years, since the novel that was almost taken up by an agent. That was when I lost my mojo, as I believe the current expression goes. Up to that point, I had no illusions about being some kind of writing genius, but I had a kind of inner confidence that I could do it. Or that I might be able to do it, if I tried my best. But since that agent changed her mind and brushed me aside, I can no longer write. Each word I type becomes the subject of my own intense scrutiny and, following that, my deepest scorn. Oh, I can write this diary, because it doesn’t matter. I can write my plans because, although they matter, they are not the book itself. They are not words that anyone else will ever read. The problem comes when I imagine some unknown person (who will always have the face of my near-miss agent) reading my work. I see the little frown begin to form, rapidly becoming a face contorted by… yes, scorn, but even more than that… almost a kind of anger at me for daring to imagine that I could ever write.
My old self, the one from way back, would laugh at such silliness. Would tell me to sit down and get on with it, the way we had to do. Imagine me at Bletchley, giving up on a piece of transcription because I feared someone’s scorn. I was full of confidence in those days. Brought up to be so. Educated to believe in my own ability, and of course I had ability – no point denying that. Not that it was easy, in those days, being a woman in a mathematical, technical field. But some of us managed it. And, of course, during the war, it was all hands to the pump and if you had the right kind of mind you did the job, no questions asked. Bit of a shock, afterwards, returning to ordinary life, but I somehow managed it. Held down a good career for many years. I’m proud of the number of students I taught to program, and yes, I was good at it. Somehow able to get inside their heads; see it from their point of view. The women, especially. Not that there were many of them… but I’m proud of the ones who made it, partly thanks to me… some of them in very good positions now.
It was all a long time ago, of course. I retired at seventy-three, by which time I had long since been working only part time. I’ve lost touch, almost, with the world of computing in the last twenty years. So much has changed. But my mind seems as active as ever, at least to me, which is why I decided to put it to use and have a bash at writing the kind of thing I’ve been reading all my life – science fiction.
I had such ambitions, at the start. Did a number of writing courses and was encouraged by my tutors to go further. Told I ‘could write’ – though I now wonder what that’s supposed to mean. Of course, I can join words in sentences, in ways that make sense. I can, I think, create convincing characters – and I can put together what people are kind enough to tell me make interesting plots.
At first, before the agent fiasco, I could write chapters too – chapters of an actual novel, for someone to read. And yet, since the day the agent sent me that email explaining why she’d ‘changed her mind’, I’ve completely lost the ability.
I should just give up, I suppose. I persevered at first because I believed the affliction would be temporary – it was just a matter of ‘getting my confidence back’. Of recovering from a blow of the type writers receive all the time, of course they do. Certainly no more of a blow than many I have received in my life, and arguably much less bad than some. Yet for some reason it knocked me to the ground and I’ve never been able to scramble to my feet.
Will Stern, that kind man, is sympathetic, of course. Oh Will, my dear friend. If only you were closer to my age. You are far from young but nevertheless I am much, much older than you, meaning that you will never look at me, not in that way. I have not been blessed in love. Perhaps if I had married and had a family… of course I would almost certainly have had to give up my career, but would that have been so bad? Who would I be without it? It’s impossible to say. Perhaps a warmer, kinder person – more like Julianne or Katy? But my first love was lost in the war and no one else ever truly fit the bill. Not until Will… who is almost twenty years younger than me.
If it were the other way round – would that make it easier, more possible? I suspect it might. The feminists will hate me for this, possibly rightly so, but to me it seems more natural for the man to be older.
And of course there are very few men left of my kind of age. Apart from Davie… Davie who clearly likes me a lot and has even ventured to ask me if I would consider – I think he used that ridiculous archaic expression ‘walking out with him’. As if I would! Davie, although a pleasant enough person, is most assuredly not my type. I let him down as gently as I could; no point in being unkind. But he was still upset – close to tears. A man of ninety-one, close to tears because a woman of ninety-two has just refused his offer of a date? Would you believe it? My twenty-year-old self would have been wracked with giggles. To be honest, I still am, though I feel a little guilty too, that I can’t give Davie what he seems to think he wants.
Actually, the very idea now of going to bed with a man is – discomfiting. I have trouble enough getting into bed and out again, without having any desire to do anything more than sleep once I’m there. If Will were to return my affections, I wouldn’t be looking for that.
Of course, if I’m really being honest here, I never had any great interest in ‘that’. In sex – let me call it by its proper name. Not sex with men. I believe, if I were to have my time again, with the same body I once had but in our present age, I might well be homosexual. A lesbian. At least, I would give it a try. Why not? Such things are socially acceptable nowadays. One can even ‘go both ways’. It might be fun. Or perhaps I would decide, after all, that I preferred a monastic life, tucked up in my academic cloisters. Who knows? All that bothers me now is remaining alive long enough to rediscover how to write.
If I were to write something, it would help. Julianne asks me, almost every week. And, of course, I try. I’ve been trying for the past hour, sitting here in my tiny sitting room. I have a beautiful plan for my latest novel, just as I have a beautiful plan for the seven or eight that precede it. Unfortunately, the plans are all I have. I write my synopsis, perfect the sequence of events, make character notes… and then I stop. I simply can’t go any further.
I’ve been this way for almost nine years, since the novel that was almost taken up by an agent. That was when I lost my mojo, as I believe the current expression goes. Up to that point, I had no illusions about being some kind of writing genius, but I had a kind of inner confidence that I could do it. Or that I might be able to do it, if I tried my best. But since that agent changed her mind and brushed me aside, I can no longer write. Each word I type becomes the subject of my own intense scrutiny and, following that, my deepest scorn. Oh, I can write this diary, because it doesn’t matter. I can write my plans because, although they matter, they are not the book itself. They are not words that anyone else will ever read. The problem comes when I imagine some unknown person (who will always have the face of my near-miss agent) reading my work. I see the little frown begin to form, rapidly becoming a face contorted by… yes, scorn, but even more than that… almost a kind of anger at me for daring to imagine that I could ever write.
My old self, the one from way back, would laugh at such silliness. Would tell me to sit down and get on with it, the way we had to do. Imagine me at Bletchley, giving up on a piece of transcription because I feared someone’s scorn. I was full of confidence in those days. Brought up to be so. Educated to believe in my own ability, and of course I had ability – no point denying that. Not that it was easy, in those days, being a woman in a mathematical, technical field. But some of us managed it. And, of course, during the war, it was all hands to the pump and if you had the right kind of mind you did the job, no questions asked. Bit of a shock, afterwards, returning to ordinary life, but I somehow managed it. Held down a good career for many years. I’m proud of the number of students I taught to program, and yes, I was good at it. Somehow able to get inside their heads; see it from their point of view. The women, especially. Not that there were many of them… but I’m proud of the ones who made it, partly thanks to me… some of them in very good positions now.
It was all a long time ago, of course. I retired at seventy-three, by which time I had long since been working only part time. I’ve lost touch, almost, with the world of computing in the last twenty years. So much has changed. But my mind seems as active as ever, at least to me, which is why I decided to put it to use and have a bash at writing the kind of thing I’ve been reading all my life – science fiction.
I had such ambitions, at the start. Did a number of writing courses and was encouraged by my tutors to go further. Told I ‘could write’ – though I now wonder what that’s supposed to mean. Of course, I can join words in sentences, in ways that make sense. I can, I think, create convincing characters – and I can put together what people are kind enough to tell me make interesting plots.
At first, before the agent fiasco, I could write chapters too – chapters of an actual novel, for someone to read. And yet, since the day the agent sent me that email explaining why she’d ‘changed her mind’, I’ve completely lost the ability.
I should just give up, I suppose. I persevered at first because I believed the affliction would be temporary – it was just a matter of ‘getting my confidence back’. Of recovering from a blow of the type writers receive all the time, of course they do. Certainly no more of a blow than many I have received in my life, and arguably much less bad than some. Yet for some reason it knocked me to the ground and I’ve never been able to scramble to my feet.
Will Stern, that kind man, is sympathetic, of course. Oh Will, my dear friend. If only you were closer to my age. You are far from young but nevertheless I am much, much older than you, meaning that you will never look at me, not in that way. I have not been blessed in love. Perhaps if I had married and had a family… of course I would almost certainly have had to give up my career, but would that have been so bad? Who would I be without it? It’s impossible to say. Perhaps a warmer, kinder person – more like Julianne or Katy? But my first love was lost in the war and no one else ever truly fit the bill. Not until Will… who is almost twenty years younger than me.
If it were the other way round – would that make it easier, more possible? I suspect it might. The feminists will hate me for this, possibly rightly so, but to me it seems more natural for the man to be older.
And of course there are very few men left of my kind of age. Apart from Davie… Davie who clearly likes me a lot and has even ventured to ask me if I would consider – I think he used that ridiculous archaic expression ‘walking out with him’. As if I would! Davie, although a pleasant enough person, is most assuredly not my type. I let him down as gently as I could; no point in being unkind. But he was still upset – close to tears. A man of ninety-one, close to tears because a woman of ninety-two has just refused his offer of a date? Would you believe it? My twenty-year-old self would have been wracked with giggles. To be honest, I still am, though I feel a little guilty too, that I can’t give Davie what he seems to think he wants.
Actually, the very idea now of going to bed with a man is – discomfiting. I have trouble enough getting into bed and out again, without having any desire to do anything more than sleep once I’m there. If Will were to return my affections, I wouldn’t be looking for that.
Of course, if I’m really being honest here, I never had any great interest in ‘that’. In sex – let me call it by its proper name. Not sex with men. I believe, if I were to have my time again, with the same body I once had but in our present age, I might well be homosexual. A lesbian. At least, I would give it a try. Why not? Such things are socially acceptable nowadays. One can even ‘go both ways’. It might be fun. Or perhaps I would decide, after all, that I preferred a monastic life, tucked up in my academic cloisters. Who knows? All that bothers me now is remaining alive long enough to rediscover how to write.
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/