Last year, I signed up for a weekly creative writing workshop, which was brilliant, and I was bereft when it ended last Easter. Then I found another one, which doesn’t have the pace or energy of the workshop. The sessions move at a glacial pace by comparison, but I persevere because it’s my only opportunity to get feedback for my work. And just when I think I’ll be stuck in second gear for another 2 months doing this type of group working, I see a scrap of paper sellotaped to a librarian’s desk, frayed at the edges and smeared with blood (well, it looked like blood to me).
CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP. ONE TICKET LEFT it says, and it’s today and it starts in two hours and the little wheels in my head start turning and I think, Ooohh, I could spare an hour and I have three quid in my pocket. So I pay my three quid and off I trot to the meeting room and it turns out to be the writer and performer Ian Clayton, who speaks in a language I understand, and is funny and down-to-earth, and gives us an exercise that makes me write like billy-o and I come away after only an hour thinking that I really can write and all the cobwebs that have started to gather around my characters seem to blow away as soon as I step out into the sunny afternoon.
Now wouldn’t that make any writer feel good?