Writing Aerobics: The Last Supper

A morning in class yesterday sharing the inner monologues we’d written of a murderer.  I decided to write one for a character in the book after ‘Duty of Care’ – ‘The Birds and the Bees’.  It was the inner thoughts of a blow fly.  She’s revolted by live bodies.  I blame years of reading crime fiction and Professor Black’s wonderful talk this week.

Now all are busy preparing their funny poems and stories.  We will have a literary ceildh later.

I hate performing unless  I’m rehearsed so  I am giving my all in the role of appreciative audience tonight.  It’s been a valuable week but I’m tired.  When I’m pooped I like to sit things out a bit.  And like the woman who changes her frock five times a day and has nothing to wear, I have nothing with me to read anyway.  I’m a mediocre performer at the best of times.

 I don’t think ‘Duty of Care’ could be construed as light banter by any stretch of the imagination.  Shame really, if I’d have thought we were doing anything other than sharing work in progress I’d have bought some of the doggerel we all write in those dark moments when we think we have something poetic to say.  My husband has suggested I offer hand dancing or a naked hand puppet act but I fear he may not have quite caught the enthusiasm in the class.  They’ll enjoy performing.  I’ll love listening and then I will abed.  I have long writing days this weekend.  I need to catch up.  

The week has held some wonderful memories.  The writing standard has been phenomenal.  I am in awe of the quality and calibre of the work.  Without exception it was a pleasure to meet up with people I already know.   The growth in writing confidence and style is marked in us all.  One has finished an early draft of her first novel; another started a PhD; another is working on an extensive historical piece; another is looking for an agent.  And me.  Moving swiftly on!

I will go into Moniack Mhor withdrawal tomorrow.  But I am looking forward to my next visit already.  It can’t come soon enough.

Now my tummy is rumbling.  Our last supper is haggis.

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