Yesterday’s post did not come from the ancient hallowed halls of the Tinhouse. It came from the ancient hallowed halls of here:
A scaffolded, could-fall-down-at-any-second building.
Crikey, you should have stayed in the Tinhouse, I hear you say, at least it doesn’t have scaffolding.
This sign may make the reason more clear:
I joined the place a couple of months ago, and this was the first time I’d been there. They had some ad on the radio, I looked up their website and suddenly found myself filling in the membership form. I’ve been getting emails about courses, emails about readings and then got an email that yesterday was a day filled with seminars and workshops, so I went along.
I ended up in a creative writing workshop, where we were given a theme (Communication) that we wrote about for half-an-hour, then people read their efforts aloud and the girl running the course commented about what they’d written.
(I chickened out, my excuse is that it’s been so long since I’ve written with an actual pen that the crapness of my handwriting astounded me, plus I had so many crossings-out, and words and even whole sentences stuck in between others, that I reckoned I wouldn’t be able to find my way through the maze of scribble, but to be honest I was terrified).
Joining the Centre was a small way of telling myself that, though I do have another job, though I’ve never written a book and never earned a halfpenny (not that that would do much good, they went out in 1972) from writing*, I am still a writer.
Though not in long-hand.
*(actually, I’ve just remembered that’s not strictly true).