Comedy – The Writing Group – Part 3 #writers #comedy #writerslife


Welcome to my weekly blog comedy series – The Writing Group. 

This series follows the emotional highs and lows of a local writing club, who meet regularly at Alfie’s Coffee Shop.


Matt, Writing Club leader, was sat talking to Alfie, as the Writing Group members entered the coffee shop.

‘Tell me honestly, Alfie?”Matt spoke in a low voice. “Do you think we are a bit crazy? I worry about how we come across.”

The coffee shop owner remained silent.

“I know what it must look like but we are just a bunch of passionate writers.” Matt, rubbed his stubble clad chin. “We might be a bit excitable, but we are all harmless.”

Alfie nodded and walked away whistling.

Suzy, the thriller writer, walked up to the table and slumped down into her chair. She had returned to the Writing Club after a month away.

“Welcome back Suzy!” Matt beamed. It was always great to see a member return.

Sadly the newcomer Rick had not returned and had not replied to any of Matt’s emails.

“Yes I’m back.” Suzy’s flat tone and loud exhale prompted all the writers to turn their heads in her direction.

“How is the novel coming along?” Matt watched Suzy place her head in her hands.

“I have been rejected by six agents.” Suzy looked gloomily into her black coffee.

‘I am sorry to hear that’ said Stacey, the apocalyptic horror writer pinning up her long blonde hair. She failed to notice Matt staring longingly at her.

“I have never been rejected by anyone in my life.” Suzy shook her long black hair in dismay. Everyone watched her pretty round face crumple and her bright blue eyes glisten with tears.

“I thought my book was going to be a best seller,” she dabbed at her left eye with a ball of tissues.

‘We have all been there.” Darcy, the Chick Lit writer, gave Suzy’s shoulder a gentle rub.

‘I had vivid dreams about my book winning prizes.” Suzy’s face reddened.

“We’ve all had those dreams.” Darcy cast her a knowing nod.

“Everyone in my family has been telling me for years that I am wordy.” Suzy raised her hands into the air.

“I hate it when family do that,” snapped Darcy. “As soon as a family member labels you wordy  that’s it, you are expected to write a best seller.”

“Terrible label.” moaned Moira, the romantic fiction writer, shaking her mass of tight grey curls.

“It’s so cruel how one little word can start a lifetime of literary pressure!” exclaimed Darcy.

“I’ve never been labelled wordy,” murmured Tina, slowly extending her arm towards the plate of cookies.

‘There must have been a mistake. Those agents were not supposed to reject me!” Suzy shook off Darcy’s hand from her arm.

“Rewrite it and send it back out,” advised Matt.

“I don’t think I can, Matt.” said Suzy.

“Speak to me if you need some tips on handling rejection.” Tina caused Karl, the comedy writer, to laugh.

He raised his coffee cup at her. “‘Tina, you’re not the best person to talk about handling rejection.”

Tina glared at him. “I am very good at dealing with rejection Karl.” She pulled across the plate of cookies towards her.

“Hang on, you quit writing after your first and only rejection letter.” Darcy grinned at Tina.

“Yes that’s true.” Tina bite into a chunk out of a large cookie.

“And you took down your blog, author website and all your social media sites the next day.” Karl smirked at Tina.

Everyone stared at Tina.

“And you had a bonfire in your back garden and burnt all your writing folders that evening,” said Darcy.

“Yes, true,” Tina wiped crumbs away from her mouth.

“And you gave your entire bookcase to the charity shop,” added Karl.

Tina nodded. “Yes, but I never let the pain of rejection take over my life.”

A peal of laughter ran out from the table. “You were a nightmare to be around for months and then you dumped your  boyfriend because he said the agent might have had a point,” giggled Darcy.

Tina let out a sigh. “As I said Suzy I am very experienced at handling rejection.”

An awkward silence descended upon the Writing Club. Richard edged his chair away from Tina to move closer to Suzy and Matt fidgeted in his seat.

“So what next, Suzy?” asked Darcy.

“I can’t go back to those literary agents,” Suzy shook her head.

Moira smiled. “You just need to get your confidence back.”

“I can’t do it,” Suzy gripped onto the table.

“Why not?” Matt drained his cup.,

Suzy coughed. “I didn’t take rejection very well. She fiddled with the corner of her notebook.

“Did you cry over a bottle wine?” asked Karl.

“Some agents  didn’t return my calls,” mumbled Suzy.

Karl’s bushy eyebrows raised sharply. “You rang them?”

“I argued with the ones I got through to,” added Suzy.

“Ok let’s move on.” Matt sensed trouble.

“You will get over it,’ Karl smiled at Suzy, ignoring Matt’s wishes.

“Karl I won’t get over it! No one rejects me!” hissed Suzy, banging her fist down on the table.

Richard let out a gasp and quickly moved his chair back to Tina.

“Suzy, you have just given me a great idea for my next novel!” Stacey started scribbling away at pace.

“What’s the idea?” asked Darcy.

“Crazed writer goes on a murder spree after getting rejected!” announced Stacey cheerfully.

‘I shouldn’t have got in the taxi,” mumbled Suzy, gripping the table and staring into space.

“What taxi?” Karl nudged Stacey.

“I will not be rejected by anyone,” whispered Suzy, causing Richard to let out a loud gasp and Moira to pull a reluctant Karl towards her. “It all happened so fast. I just saw red.”

Suzy rose from her chair. “Think I need to phone the police”.

“Oh my goodness this is great novel fodder! Just look at her!” shrieked Stacey furiously writing on her pad.

Matt cast a worried glance at Alfie who simply shook his head.

There will be more next week from The Writing Group.

photo credit: Upsplash

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I am a blonde writer of romantic comedy fiction.

23 thoughts on “Comedy – The Writing Group – Part 3 #writers #comedy #writerslife

  1. I’m a member of a writer’s group. I haven’t seen them in months. The last time I was there was for a public reading of a short love story. Since then, I’ve gotten a crime thriller ready for publication. When I go back, I’ll likely have a lot of explaining to do.

  2. The Old Ladies Detective-Writer’s Club
        The Suicide Pact
        by “Rose”

        It looked like it would be a catastrophe, given the clues that Jane had found tucked into the pages of the Emily Dickenson poetry book. We thought perhaps it was an opportune time to re-activate, or should I say re-convene “The Old Lady Writer’s Detective Club.” Actually, we had never gotten off the ground with the club, but why not now, seeing as Jane had found her lucky hat with what she called her “Dodo” feather dyed purple. I guess she called it that so no one could accuse her of stealing an endangered peacock feather, because she gets embarrassed even though none of us, not even Marsha, who had been to Woodstock chasing the cute guys for their free love, ever fell for that endangered species crap. We recycle notions and hats, but the wine bottles can go down the chute with the Edison light bulbs. What the hell, we need to have some sins besides Nigel, Ralph and James, but that’s another story.
        When Jane summoned us to the Bookstore Café on Crosby Street around 5pm we were barely able to find a table on the main floor. When Marsha and I arrived, Jane was sitting down at the last table with a knish, a coffee, and the poetry book in question.
        Marsha had said, “Where’d you find it?”
        “Y’know, on the second floor balcony in the Poetry section under ‘D’,” sighed Jane wanting to get on with it. “Look, these bookmark papers are notes for a suicide pact.”
        “Whaaat?” Marsha and I shouted. Everyone who was standing and hovering around looked at us probably thinking, ‘could these old nutty ladies give up their table ’cause this should be for the hip youth,’ or whatever the kids say nowadays.
        “Well, um…,” Jane flubbed around her more usual eloquence.
        We grabbed the papers out of her hand that she had unfolded. It looked like notes for a suicide pact. “Shouldn’t we stop them, whoever they are?” I said, grabbing one of the scraps.
        “It’s just rambling philosophy,” said Jane suddenly changing her mind about the importance of her discovery.
        “Well, just some of it…bet you couldn’t answer this scribble in the side margin,” I said.
        “Oh yeah,” said Marsha, “What?”
        “What’s a billion dollars?” I said trying to hype the notes and make it more than just a discussion of math and economics on a perfectly innocent plane.
        Marsha said, “Um, I never got past a million in my imagination…”
        Well, I said, “If I had a million dollars on this table, we’d have to have space for a thousand such tables to have a billion dollars laid out.”
        “Uh, ha,” said Jane. “You have a million dollars? Put it on the table and we can go to Las Vegas right now…”
        Marsha grabbed the papers to read while Jane and I bantered like peahens cocking their heads looking for a peacock, and there were certainly a lot of cute guys roaming around with books trying to look unbookish. If we had a million dollars then…
        “First,” I said, “get us a thousand tables…”
        “Yeah,” said Jane finishing her knish like there was a potato famine, “that’s the thing: how much of this is fantasy and musing, and how much is real?”
        Marsha jumped in. “OK. I see we’re avoiding the main nut of it — this piece here,” she said. “Um, listen: ‘Dear Kathleen, Sorry for the letter but I don’t have a computer. I saw on the news that we won the 500 Million Dollar lottery prize. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we buried the ticket in a time capsule with other papers in the desert near Las Vegas last month when we went on that drunken gambling spree. The good news is that our cell phone transmitted the GPS coordinates of the treasure I’ve written here. The bad news is, how the hell do we use these numbers? The kids can’t be trusted to help us with this, and anyway they won’t believe it. Let’s just go ahead with the suicide pact.’ ”
        “It’s just musing,” I said, “but why don’t we go to Las Vegas, because, you know, actually, it is a hopeless cause like our club. Isn’t it? None of us has published anything. Right?”
        Jane pulled her little gun from her bag and said, “Remember the movie, ‘They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?’ ”
        Marsha screamed, “Be careful with that thing. Don’t be silly.” But the gun went off.
        Marsha is dead and so is Jane. It’s a mystery that I’m still alive considering that Armageddon awaits and I’m not optimistic even though I grabbed Jane’s hat and got out the door before the police came. It’s a shame that we could never get the “Writer’s Club” off the ground. Not everyone is clever enough to survive in a mild mannered maneuver. Oh well. I’ll go to Las Vegas by myself and look for the treasure under the stars. Maybe I’ll find a cute millionaire. And then I’ll start a new Writer’s Club for Widows.

      1.     Thanks. Actually, this is an old short story that I never used for anything. I’ve finally finished my long suffering WIP “The Fog of the Caveman’s Blog: The Priestess Loves Asperger’s Eokxavexa.”
            The paperback printed version (512 pages) is out, but it’s DOA (Dead on Arrival), because it’s much too expensive $27. So I’m waiting for the e-book version to be approved, and silly me, I found some changes to make which makes the paper version even more extinct.
            Anyway, my books are here:

        Some excerpts are on my blog which is at the link under my name “Kvizee Doug”
            I find it really hard to write a blog which is why I originally started the “blog” by the Caveman which became the novel sort of. But anyway, that didn’t really work out as a blog and nothing happened (that was a few years ago.) Maybe I’ll try again to write “in character”, but I don’t know. And maybe when the e-book comes out, I’ll try a twitter promotion. But that seems pretty hopeless. So anyway, I’m waiting for doom. Until then, “happy, happy days are here again”

  3. razed writer goes on a murder spree… love it! I can just see the headlines now, and this series turning into a murder mystery? Hmmm

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