BEING CRITICAL

The writers met every two months or so. They’d take it in turns to host the sessions and before each meeting, e-mails or posted photocopies criss-crossed between the five participants. The rule was that no one could submit a piece of work longer than 2,500 words. Each creative member wanted a fair crack of the whip at every meeting. Each wanted their own work appraised by the others and so the length of the piece was agreed on. Most had work in hand. Two of the group were progressing their novels and so a chapter or part of a chapter was presented for criticism. One was into short stories. One was a poet and one, struggling with a film script. So each member was given four pieces of writing to “crit” at least a week before the meeting. There were no real excuses for not having read and thought about their colleague’s work before the gathering.

Just before Christmas it was the turn of Penelope to hold the meeting at her gaff. When she got home from her work, she tidied up her sitting room, cleared the table of all its evidence of her writing. She did everything in long hand, didn’t have a computer like the others. She tipped a jumbo bag of Kettle crisps into a bowl and unscrewed a glass jar of chilli dip. She found five glasses and a bottle of Lambrusco. She hoped that some of the others might bring a bottle. Not all of them would. Justine was penniless, poorer even than Penelope. Maybe Kirsty would bring something homemade. Kirsty was like that. When she wasn’t writing she’d be turning the hedgerows into something wholesome to eat or drink. Gregory would certainly bring a bottle. It would be a half-decent red. He’d present it to Penelope with a flourish and then proceed to drink most of it himself. Duncan would be on water.

She turned on the lights to the artificial Christmas tree. The little white bulbs burst into seasonal action and Penelope briefly marvelled at the Woolworth’s creation. She wasn’t feeling Christmassy but no doubt she would nearer the time.

Seven o’clock arrived and so did Kirsty. She bustled into the flat wrapped up like Mother Nature. From an old wicker hen basket she produced a blackberry and apple pie and a bottle of Elder flower wine and a sheath of paper with the typed and written submissions from the group.

“How’s it going darling?” Kirsty kissed Penelope lightly on the lips and started to unwrap the layers that protected her from the weather and other unwanted approaches.

“Alright I suppose,” said Penelope taking the pie and the bottle off to the kitchen as though they ought to be put into quarantine. “How’s it with you?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Oh you know.” Kirsty and Penelope had been in the same group for the MA in creative writing at the University College. They’d both chosen Love Story as a context module.

“Who are we expecting this evening?” Kirsty shouted to the kitchen.

“The usual suspects I think. Justine should be here if she can cadge a lift. Duncan’s on and Gregory will be late. As always.”

“As always,” sang Kirsty in agreement as her friend reappeared.

“Would you like some of this?” Penelope brandished the Lambrusco.

“Half a glass darling. I’ve got to drive.”

Half a glass later, the others had arrived.

Justine looked like she always did. As though she didn’t have two bob to rub together. He hair was lank and lack lustre. It hadn’t seen shampoo for a week or more.

“I didn’t know what to bring.” Justine’s pathetic apology bounced off the others. Penelope and Kirsty exchanged knowing glances. Justine might be a very talented writer, but oh dear was she ever a leech.

She took off her brown parka jacket with its moulting fur collar and slung it over the back of the chair that she was going to occupy for the session. She unpacked her satchel and claimed her space on the table.

Duncan had a cold. Duncan always seemed to have a cold.

“I’m afraid I’m all bunged up. Don’t think it’s infectious though.” Penelope decided to sit as far away from him as possible just in case. Duncan took a seat at the table and from his Tesco plastic carrier bag produced his own sheath of paper and a biro, a net bag of Satsumas and a Vick nasal stick.

“Any one want one of these?” he asked waving at the things around him.

“Not over keen on the thing you’ve been sticking up your nose, but I might have a go at one of those for the vitamin C a bit later on.” said Gregory.

Gregory produced a bottle of French claret from his floppy leather brief case and handed it reluctantly to Penelope.

“Quite a good year for a Saint Emilion and rather a good Saint Emilion at that.” Gregory couldn’t wait to try it but would probably have to suffer a glass of Lambrusco before the red treat.

“So how are we all?” he asked pretty much knowing the answer.

“I’ve got a stinking cold,” said Duncan.

“Lots of it about,” said Gregory.

“And how’s the Good Life?” Gregory addressed Kirsty as he always did.

“The allotment is fine thanks Gregory,” replied Kirsty as she always did.

“And the writing Justine?” said Gregory.

“No one wants poetry.” Justine sounded gloomy.

“Nor short stories,” said Duncan with his Vick applicator stuffed up one nostril.

“Shall we crack on then?” suggested Penelope taking her place at the table and spreading her paper work out in front of her. “Who shall we do first?” she said looking around the table at the writers.

They chose Duncan’s short story because Duncan wasn’t sure if he’d be able to last the whole session.

It wasn’t one of his best. Obscure to the point of becoming muddling, everyone agreed that they all had to read through it at least twice before things became sort of clearer.

“I didn’t understand the bit about the eating disorder,” said Kirsty. “What was the point you were trying to make?”

“I agree,” said Gregory. “Doesn’t ring true having a top class chef with Bulimia.”

“I thought the idea was funny,” said Justine.

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” said Duncan. “The chef was revolted by what he had become. He could no longer stand to prepare the food for his dreadful clients so he spewed up what he tasted and added that to his dish of the day.”

“Charming,” said Penelope.

“I think it should be longer.” Justine thought out loud. “I’d like to see the character developed more. What drove him to do what he did? Why did he resort to the meat cleaver on the headwaiter? We need more background story I feel. What does anybody else think?”

“It doesn’t matter a toss what anybody else thinks,” said Duncan nasally. “It’s my story and I think it’s fine just as it is.” There was an abrupt pause.

“Right,” said Penelope gathering up the situation. “Let’s move on.”

Justine’s poem was, thought Gregory, something like Leonard Cohen might have written. He’d meant it as a compliment but Justine didn’t take it as one.

“What the fuck dew mean?” Justine scowled across the table and made Gregory feel very anxious.

“I like Leonard Cohen. Used to get very pissed listening to his stuff.” Gregory wasn’t helping himself.

“I used to cry a lot too,” said Duncan instantly making Justine hate him as well. He caught her awful gaze and rammed the Vick stick a little too firmly up his nose.

“Well I thought your poem was full of beautiful imagery and creative cunning.” Penelope attempted to pick up the pieces. “I particularly liked ‘ oft to dance in the dragons den where fearful smoke choked puffed up men’. That socked it to me, struck a chord in my psyche.”

“Yes,” piped up Kirsty eager to keep things positive. “I really liked the way you have a go at the dominant male pomposity.”

“I wasn’t.” Justine looked horrified.

“Oh,” said Kirsty. “I thought you were.”

“Well you thought wrong. I wasn’t.”

“Well I’m pleased about that.” Gregory laughed.

“Leonard pissing Cohen,” was all that Justine said as she shuffled up the papers like a newsreader at the end of the news.

Duncan peeled a satsuma.

Gregory’s film script was riddled with mistakes. Grammatical as well as factual.

“You can’t have a mobile phone going off can you? I thought the scene was supposed to be set in nineteen bloody sixty eight.” As he spoke Duncan peeled the white stringy bits from the orange segments before he slipped them into his mouth one by one.

“Yes I know. Bit of a cock up that bit. I’ll have him using a coin box. Or change the date.” Gregory had meant to edit that bit before sending it out to the others.

“I’m just not convinced by your two main characters.” Kirsty wasn’t convinced.

“I’m convinced you’re a dyke,” said Gregory crossly.

“What did you say?” said Kirsty.

“I said I’m convinced you’re a bean flicker.” Gregory was being far more direct.

“I think you better apologise for that,” said Penelope.

“Why? It’s true.”

“You’re a pompous prick!” said Justine. “But we don’t go round telling you.”

“At least pricks are useful,” said Gregory gathering up his papers and pen and stuffing them into his battered brief case. “I’m out of here. I’ll take my bottle of wine with me. You lot haven’t got an ounce of taste between you.” Gregory got up and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved his bottle.

“Good night and fuck the lot of you.” Gregory slammed the frail front door as he left and the Christmas tree lights shook with the excitement.

“Well.” said Penelope. “Who’s next?”

Kirsty’s novel was about a promiscuous love affair between an older woman and her niece and a pet Tamworth sow. The passage from a chapter that the group had been asked to ‘crit’ involved a scene where the older woman was introducing her niece to artificial insemination techniques with the pig.

Duncan was obviously extremely uncomfortable with the writing and said so.

“Who the hell’s going to read this sort of porn?” he asked.

“It’s not pornographic. It’s colourful creative prose with a hint of erotica.” Kirsty was being defensive.

“I agree,” said Penelope.

“You’d agree with anything she said,” said Justine.

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Yes you would.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“I think Gregory was right.” Justine brought the silly banter to an end.

“Well you better follow him out then,” said Penelope.

“I think I fucking will,” said Justine scooping up her belongings and grabbing her parka. She headed for the front door, turned and shouted at Penelope. “Do you know what? You can stuff that Christmas tree right up your arse and spin on top of it like a fucking fairy until the next millennium. Good fucking night.”

For the second time the thin front door took a battering.

“I think I ought to be off,” said Duncan. “Shall I leave the satsumas?”

Penelope and Kirsty sat and looked at each other once Duncan had seen himself out.

“Well,” said Penelope at last. “Not the most successful session we’ve had.”

Kirsty burst into laughter. Penelope joined in. The two women rocked with mirth until the idea faded. The Christmas tree regained its ground as the most amusing thing in the room once again.
“Why don’t I fetch that pie you bought?”

“Good idea.”

The pie was brought to the table with a bread knife and Penelope cut into it with precision.

“Yummy,” she said after the first bite.

“What about your work? Let’s look at that shall we?” Kirsty found the relevant hand written sheets of paper on which she’d made her notes about Penelope’s writing.

“Apart from one or two minor points of poor punctuation and a couple of places where your spell check seems to have gone on the blink, I basically liked your writing Penelope.”

“You know I don’t have a spell check but thanks anyway,” said Penelope with the powdery crumbs of Kirsty’s pastry sparkling on her lips.

“There is however one problem I have.” Kirsty hadn’t finished.

“ Oh. What’s that?”

“You’ve stolen the plot.”

“What on earth do you mean?” said Penelope almost choking on Kirsty’s fruit pie.

“You’ve taken the story I was writing, the one I told you about on the course, and you’ve used it. Stolen it from me.” Kirsty was being serious.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t be so damned precious. You were never going to do anything with it. Besides I’m a far better writer than you’ll ever be.” Penelope had gone too far, said too much.

“You’re a cow,” said Kirsty.

“And you’re the back end of one,” said Penelope.

“Copy cunt!” said Kirsty.

“Take that back you bitch!” yelled Penelope as she threw the rest of the blackberry and apple pie at Kirsty. It narrowly missed its intended target and stuck to the wall behind ever so briefly before crumbling to the floor.

Quick as a flash Kirsty grabbed the heavy serrated bread knife and whacked it down on the table with a frightening bang. Her sudden guillotine action caught the end of Penelope’s index finger, the one on her right hand. The amputated tip shot across the table as though it was under its own steam and flew off the edge, landing under the Christmas tree like some vile, useless and unwanted present.

-8-

The blue flashing lights from the street outside eclipsed those from Woolworth’s strung on the tree. They had a more dramatic urgency, a critical purpose. They weren’t hanging around like decorations, a festive flash in the pan for a few weeks every year. The blue and white light glistened off the blood red graffiti dribbled and smeared across the sheets of paper scattered over the table and on the floor of the empty flat. Under the red trail, almost running through it, the ironic hand written words on one of Penelope’s pages, ‘ the finger writes and having written, moves on.’

-8-

Penelope’s New Year’s resolution was to learn to type. She decided she didn’t need ‘crit’ sessions any more. She’d get on just fine without them.