attended a small poetry/writing workshop in a West Brunswick library last night.
It was a small group. Only three people. There were very friendly and welcoming.
I got a chance to read some of
my poems which were received favorably. And it was nice to get a chance
to talk about my work with other writers. They esp liked my poem, "My Lover sleeps somewhere foreign". I really need to be meeting more like-minded people. Most of my friends in Australia are not interested in poetry, writing, etc.. and forgive me for saying so - but our friendships are getting stale.
One of the interesting things that we did that night was to spend 30 minutes writing a murder story. I found the task daunting. I haven't done this sort of timed disciplined work in years, maybe decades. But I actually completed it and ... well parts of it was actually pretty good. I got a good laugh out of my workshop mates when I reached a conclusion. At least it was entertaining.
Unfortunately, one of the
workshop regulars showed up towards the end of the meeting and he stank of urine.
Seriously. He smelled like he had just bathed in an open latrine. He was an old man who wore a
bad Donald Trump wig. He wore a dirty tweed jacket. His eyes were blood shot. And he
claimed to be a playwright or theatre director. He spent a great deal of time
complaining that he couldn't get enough (any) actors to join his play. I felt sorry for him. He actually spoke very well for someone who had probably spent the whole day drinking alcohol.
I wondered what happened to him? How did he end up this way.
I did feel sorry for him but my sympathy did not extend to participating in his production. At the next opportunity I said it was getting late and said goodbye.