I pick up the post on my way out to work. Something from Winchester and something from West Dean: Writers' Conference and short course details, I assume. Hop on the bus, settle down to read. Terry Pratchett - very tempting. Oopsy, a Saturday, can't take any more time off work. Catherine McNaughton at Kip McGrath has been pretty tolerant of my periodic jaunts to conferences, workshops and the like.
OK short courses - would like to get guitar session organised for very supportive and over-worked husband Stephen. Some concerts are in the church at West Dean. Envelope taped down- they must have the same useless gum we do.Tear it open, the raggedy edge irritates.
Gasp. I've been accepted, Was Greg playing with me when he said it could be a fortnight or more? This letter must have been sent immediately, perhaps even already drafted whilst I was there, hanging about for the No. 60 bus. Well - I do make a good 'straight-man'- Alan Davies to other people's Stephen Fry. My smile won't stop curling up at the edges like a damp paperback.
Once home straight off to email Ellen Renner and Julia Churchill of the Greenhouse Literary Agency. Have to thank them for the references- what chutzpah to ask them! I wish I knew what they had written.Then on to Facebook - post for all my friends to see, especially the wonderful MA Mavens. Comments bounce back: joyous, supportive, immediate. I delight in the writers' community.
I work on draft 2 of The Thirteenth Pharaoh, responding to Mike Turner's critique among others. Why would I not listen to a guy who got 94 % in an OU piece? He is on the collaborative writing weekend at West Dean. Patricia (his lovely Austrian wife) is coming too. The bar is a must-do, then. Saturday Night
I allow myself a small sense of belonging as Stephen drives down the sweeping drive. We park, almost bump into Greg Mosse as he is leaving. He is pleasant as ever. My edgy little hopes have hatched.
Off inside the grand house.Smile at the security man, hope he recognises me: a little unsure about this bit. On the way to the bar, we find alternative Mike by the coats. He is in a fetching leather hat, and rather chirpy -has found his metier with play-writing, it seems. It would be hard not to enjoy his happy litle jig.
Into the bar now. I spot a wave. The wave means so much, the wave which says come over here, join in, be one of us. We sit and chat and drink. Here's Sid as well, and new to me, David, still labelled from the workshop. I am in this warmth, this loose circle, We disagree, we dispute, yet the elastic camaraderie holds. Politics, gender, taste in reading; genre we write in; all colour the glow in different hues. We are sat round a hearth, putting the world to rights, and I am included..
The security guard calls me' madam' - we have to go, as non-residents, On the way to the car, the clouds part a little. I look up.A single star shines through the cedar.With a smile hidden in my heart I say: 'Star light, Star bright...'
Yippee!!!! Fantastic, a whole new adventure - WELL DONE!
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