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| Writer's
Blog 16 |
Another term has ended at the writing
class that I attend.
As usual, the
last day of class followed a particular
pattern.
Each of us had to bring a short
piece on a theme which had been
announced a few weeks earlier.
These short pieces must be no longer than
a single side of A4. And they are
submitted anonymously - the writer's
name mustn't appear on them.
Then there's the drink.
Everyone
brings wine and soft drinks. And
loads of food. There's always more
than the class - and tutor - could
possibly eat.
What happens is this. We all sit
round the food and pitch in. Wine
is taken. Then the tutor reads the
first piece. Everyone tries to
guess who the author is. We call
out the name of the classmate who - we
think - wrote the piece. Sooner or
later, we call the correct name and the
author owns up. Kind words are
spoken about the piece that's just been
read. Friendly banter is
exchanged.
More wine is taken.
Then it's on to the next
one.
And so on.
At first, it seems easy to guess the
correct author.
After all, most of us have been
attending the class for a couple of
years now. We've heard our
classmates read their work on several
occasions - we can spot their individual
styles without too much
difficulty.
But, as the afternoon wears on, it
becomes increasingly difficult to name
the author of each new piece, or even to
remember the names of those who've
already been guessed. This seems
to matter less and less as time goes
on.
The wine is good. Someone will
say, "Have some of this quiche,
it's excellent!"
Good cheer abounds.
Then we clear up and go off home - or to
the pub.
But there is one last piece of business
to be done. Mike, the tutor, asks
for volunteers to read from their
"work in progress" on the
first day of the next term. I
volunteer.
It must have been the wine.
© David
Gray
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