Kay tells me this group has now disbanded – there's probably a story or two in that!
A Tale for our Time
Writers come in all shapes and sizes,
Race and Religions and different
disguises,
The quiet as a mouse, the blatantly
loud,
The cautious, the reckless, the shy and
the proud.
The weary, the dreary, the lustful and
leery,
The hopeful, the doubtful, the dour and
the cheery,
Into the library each Wednesday we
troop,
The disparate members of our Writing
Group.
Slowly but surely the writers drift in,
Here comes old Molly, still smelling of
gin.
Next comes the man who’s convinced he
knows best,
Sitting next to the girl with the
ginormous chest.
Mad Mick the bouncer, who’s brilliant
at verse,
Sits down next to Sarah, the Community
Nurse,
We’ve got novelists, poets and
screenwriters too,
From writing for children to something
quite blue,
Tales of rejection make everyone groan.
‘I hear that Romance is doing quite
well,’
‘Oh no it isn’t, it just doesn’t
sell.’
‘How about Sci-Fi, I’d give it a
shot,’
‘Oh no,’ says another, ‘most
certainly not.’
‘How about crime or historical
thrillers,
A bloodthirsty saga of latter-day
killers?’
‘You’d have to add zombies,
vampires or ghosts,
But Celebrity stories are what they
love most.’
‘Write what you know,’ they cry
with one voice,
I know very little, so that limits my
choice.
They grumble and mumble and twitter
away,
Deploring the state of the book-world
today.
If they can’t get published, then
what chance have I?
I sit and I ponder as the minutes tick
by.
‘What’s that I hear, no it cannot
be real,
Old Jeremy’s landed a seven-book
deal!
It’s out with the Champers, the
biscuits and cheese,
Then back to the laptop and pounding
the keys.









