Insomnia?
No - just the frozen shoulder ...
A) Preamble - It's just after 2 a.m. and I am typing again on the blog - when you cannot sleep for pain - you either lie there changing position over and over - or you come down, have tea and toast and type (which actually does not feel too good for the left arm either). The cat keeps me company on the settee (I'm actually not in bed as the clipart suggests) - he and I have a good understanding. He's the same sort of age as me (in cat years that is) - luckily in better health than me although he shares the same attributes - in fact his stomach hangs down not far above the ground as he walks along - at least mine hardly notices - unless you are an intimate person in my life and really know its expanse - oh dear too much information again ...
OK here goes - into the dangerous zone of reality - I am about to talk about real people and real events and real experiences (that of course is real experiences as in my take on them). I have to say that as no doubt others will see things differently and maybe eventually these "others" will take exception. I'll try to be very careful and not libel anyone...
Some months ago I attended (in my real name - not my pen name used on this blog and in my writing generally) a writing group in Louth - Lincolnshire. I won't go into detail here and now (in this paragraph) but I am going to put a follow-on post below (same post with same title but a separate section below) that gives a sort of account of the group and the written piece "Hats" - a piece of flash fiction (which I thought and a few others thought quite good).
So to be clear:
A) You have this preamble (above).
B) You have a copy of an account of what led to this particular piece of written work.
C) You have the work in it's raw form.
D) You have a slightly tidied-up (final?) version of that work (just over 400 words - so to me that's flash fiction).
B) Starting with the word Background ... The account of what led to the particular piece of writing (don't be put off by any strange formatting or apparently botched layout or entries - it is because the item was pasted from WORD and some weird stuff crept in - sorry.
Background:
Louth Poetry Group (which
now also includes creative writing) has (as at March 2018) twice weekly
café style meetings (bacon rolls or croissants & fresh percolated coffee
available) that typically run from 09.00 until 12 noon and have a section when
the leader asks what we’ve been up to writing-wise, followed by say a 45 minute
writing session which is then, in turn, read out and peer-reviewed. Sometimes
the writing section is themed but mostly not – i.e. free choice of subject
matter. The group also has monthly workshops and seasonal ‘readings’ (evenings).
Their website (click the link above) has full details. The man running it, Christopher
Sanderson is a richly accented Yorkshireman (whom I found audibly attractive, not despite of, but because of, his perpetual dropping of Hs). In my assessment he was and is an
accomplished and prolific poet – not sure if published though. His partner, Kate
Harrison, a former nurse, also writes, but quantitively less so and she is also
a humanist celebrant.
I had been attending for about 2/3 months and on the whole
enjoyed it a lot but I got the impression that the people running it didn't like
me, especially the the leader's partner (but that seemed to start after I did a visual art performance comparing two music items including Sting and Every Breath You Take - which had lyrics that she saw as being about stalking and which had never previously occured to me). I think that ‘highbrow people’ (and I believe they
think that they are) sometimes think that anyone who acts ‘above their station’
should be shunned and I think they think that I act above my station. Over the
few months I had been with them I gained/learned all of the following and
more:
o
A strong belief in my own ability to write good
fiction.
o
That I work at my best under pressure when
writing live in ‘class’.
o
A realisation that poetry is something I
really struggle with writing and also to understand the breadth and scope of it.
o
That sometimes my flash fiction (very short
stories) that are written in class live and timed are so good that the two key
people don’t actually believe that I did it in class (as I have mostly used a
laptop) and may not even believe that the work is my own. (If one thought that - that might indeed be a
reason not to like me... or was a little jealousy afoot maybe?) Christopher had at
least twice asked me the strange question “did you just write that [xxxx] or was
it written earlier?” It’s not easy actually to categorically prove that my work was “fresh” and why should one have to? I wondered about
screen-prints of the file properties which show date and time but why should one
and how sad are they to think me or anyone at a writers’ group capable of
such ridiculous subterfuge!
o
I have witnessed jealousy many times before during my life and
because I have never suffered from ‘the disease’ myself I often seek excuses
for such alien behaviour by others, thinking such nastiness cannot be what it
often turns out to be - i.e. real (when eventually one is left with no other conclusion to draw). My time at a
previous local writers’ group illustrated the same behaviours when I was
effectively bullied by that male leader - illustrated by him constantly saying in public “no
non-reader will ever make a writer”. This ridicule almost destroyed my self confidence at the time which thankfully I have fully rebuilt.
I know I can write [prose at least]. All I need to do is do it and get published – but I don’t have much time left and I am not very disciplined.
C) - The first (in class live version of Hats back in March 2018):
Hats
I remember that
flight – June 1st 1975, Jane daydreamed...
“Taxi to right 90
Pan Am 365”
“Right 90, taxiing
now”.
“Hold at runway 07
– expected 2 minutes”
We looked out into
the darkness of the Sicilian sky as the engines idled briefly.
“Half throttle
Frank”.
“Pan Am 365 – you
are cleared for immediate take off.”
“You have it Frank
– all yours”.
The four Rolls
Royce Jupiter engines roared and the 737 shuddered from a standing start to a
hundred MPH, then one fifty, two hundred and lift-off into the shimmering
redness reflected off Etna in the distance. The crew still seated and belted
watched the angle of the aircraft steepen as it climbed through the mist.
Sylvie’s attention
was taken by a man three seats down on the right aisle. He’d obviously taken
his seat belt off. He stood up awkwardly a lone figure amongst an orderly
flight complement of 160 souls.
“Sir, return to
your seat immediately please and fasten your seat belt.”
He took no damn
notice so Sylvie unbuckled her seat belt and launched herself towards him. He
had opened the locker and drew out a plastic bag.
“Jesus Sylvie – has
he got...”
This was Jane, the
other rear crew girl thinking the unthinkable: did this man have a gun in that
plastic bag?
Sylvie grabbed his
arm and gestured that he should be seated. He complied, still clutching the
bag. He stood up again reached into the bag and pulled out a bundle of paper
hats and threw them out to the people now looking tense, with one elderly
bespectacled lady looking ashen-faced.
“Come on guys – put
‘em on for Godsakes – doesn’t anybody know it’s Christmas and party time!”
Nervously two young
men slipped on their paper hats, then a girl three seats up did the same.
Slowly, never
taking her eyes off the man, Sylvie and then Jane put paper hats on as the
plane levelled out and the seat belt sign went off.
Deep sighs could be
heard along the aisles as heads turned.
“Sorry guys – did I
frighten somebody?”
Raymond Ellis was
24 years old, from Allentown, Pennsylvania (same town as Billy Joel) and he was
returning home from his first trip abroad ever. He’d been to the old country to
see his long lost Italian Mafiosi as he always called his distant cousins. He
had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two months earlier and he had completed
stage one of his bucket list.
Ignore my [class] notes below:
Uncle Bulgaria hat??
Theme next time: weather whether – for Thursday April 5th.
Good Friday for Spring Solstice thing 19.30
........................................................................................................................................
D) Tidied-up version (that hopefully will eventually turn up in my published anthology):
Hats
I remember that flight – June 1st 1975, Jane
daydreamed...
“Taxi to right nine zero Pan Am 365.”
“Right nine zero, taxiing now.”
“Hold at runway zero seven – expected two minutes.”
We looked out into the darkness of the Sicilian sky as the
engines idled briefly.
“Half throttle Frank.”
“Pan Am 365 – you are cleared for immediate take off.”
“You have it Frank – all yours.”
The four Rolls Royce Jupiter engines roared and the 737
shuddered from a standing start to a hundred MPH, then one fifty, two hundred
and lift-off into the shimmering redness reflected off Etna in the distance.
The crew still seated and belted watched the angle of the aircraft steepen as
it climbed through the mist.
Sylvie’s attention was taken by a man three seats down on
the right of the aisle. He’d obviously taken his seat belt off. He stood up
awkwardly a lone figure amongst an orderly seated flight complement of 160
souls.
“Sir, return to your seat immediately please and fasten your
seat belt.”
He took no damn notice so Sylvie unbuckled her seat belt and
launched herself towards him. He had opened the locker and drew out a plastic
bag.
“Jesus Sylvie – has he got ...”
This was Jane, the other rear crew girl thinking the
unthinkable: did this man have a gun in that plastic bag?
Sylvie grabbed his arm and gestured that he should be
seated. He complied, still clutching the bag. He stood up again reached into
the bag and pulled out a bundle of paper hats and threw them out to the people
now looking tense, with one elderly bespectacled lady looking ashen-faced.
“Come on guys – put ‘em on for Godsakes – doesn’t anybody
know it’s Christmas and party time!”
Nervously two young men slipped on their paper hats, then a
girl three seats up did the same.
Slowly, never taking her eyes off the man, Sylvie and then
Jane put paper hats on as the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign went
off.
Deep sighs could be heard along the aisles as heads turned.
“Sorry guys – did I frighten somebody?”
Raymond Ellis was 24 years old, from Allentown, Pennsylvania
(same town as Billy Joel) and he was returning home from his first trip abroad
ever. He’d been to the old country to see his long-lost Italian Mafiosi as he
always called his distant cousins. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer
two months earlier and he had completed stage one of his bucket list.
(415 words including title Hats – originated in March 2018
and placed on blog in August 2018.)
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