I’ve always been interested in writing but in my busy working life there just wasn’t the time. Now, in retirement, I have no excuse. The act of minor creation is fascinating, especially when working to a cryptic theme set by the month’s chair-person.
I have no ambition to write a 600-page saga. I prefer the short story and flash fiction range. A number of my flash-fictions have been published in the Shrewsbury Flash Fiction website. There’s no money in it but I write mainly for my own pleasure. It’s like fishing – some cost, no financial rewards but a good way to enjoy three hours.
I have entered a number of short story competitions. Polite “Thanks but no thanks” reaction so far but hope remains. Self-advice: “Keep trying and be encouraged by the many rejections Ian Rankin received before he sold his first novel.” It would be nice to find a good home for my short fiction collection. These tales are usually in range of 2500 – 5000 words and have therefore not been offered to competitions where short work is preferred.
BWG have taken part on local literary events at Bridgnorth and Wolverhampton. I have enjoyed being the coarse prose-writer among all those gifted poets.
His wife’s last words as she and the children went through the gate to the Departure Lounge was – “Don’t you dare forget – we’re picking you up next Friday from Malaga Airport at 2.30.
He would have preferred to have gone with them but there were, as always, a few things he had to do before he could get away. There was his London book launch on Monday and his publisher wanted him to meet someone who could help him with technical details for his next effort. Then, James Lawrence told himself, I can get off for a month, lie in the sun, hike in the hills, eat and drink just a little too much and even play with the kids.An hour later he turned off the road into his drive, pausing a moment for the gates to open. He didn’t notice the uniformed man sitting on the farm gate opposite his entrance. The rhododendrons were in full flower, the sun was shining, it was just hot enough for comfort and, not for the first time, he wondered why, every summer at this time, the family dragged themselves off to a villa in Spain. It was so much nicer in England.
He stopped the car by his front door. A man, a stranger, stood up from the picnic bench and walked over to him. James looked at him. A tall heavy man, leaning with both hands on his stick; rather elegant in blazer and bright blue trousers, a cravat. Could have been anything from 60 to 70. He walked over to the car as James got out.
“You must be Mr James Lawrence?” There was a slight American accent.
“Excuse the intrusion but your housekeeper invited me to wait here in the garden.”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Lawrence said.
“Oh yes we have – I’m your father.”
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