Artisan Writing Group Launched

Further to recent research that has shown that “slow” or “traditional” writing methods deliver a better educated readership and higher book sales for the author, a select group of writers has come together to form the first fully membership based Artisan Writing Group®.

Provided any work is done according to the Artisan Writing Group rulebook guidelines, it will be certified as Artisan and included in the Artisan Book Register, a copy of which will be held by all better class book sellers. Authors will be delighted to know that Artisan certified books will not be sold as e-books, nor will they ever be remaindered.

Critically, all members will eschew the use of computers, word processors, printers and other digital machinery for their writing process; Artisan Writers® will record their thoughts, ideas, scripts and stories using pen and ink (black or blue only) or lead based pencils – pencils to be sharpened by hand, slowly and deliberately. Paper will be hand-made using only recycled materials. Access to the world wide web for purposes of research is disallowed and all dictionaries, thesauruses and reference works must be hard copies. At least 27% of an Artisan Writer’s work must take place in a public library. No work is to be done in a coffee chain outlet.

Writers can apply for Foundation Membership which specifies the use of quill and ink with blotting paper replaced by sand for all Artisan certified works. Foundation Members are guaranteed a 25% increase in book sales as well as a readership to include the minor royals and their hangers-on.

Associate Artisan Writers will be entitled to produce their work on non-electric typewriters provided they use paper hand made from recycled materials and comply with all the other rules.

Artisan Writers have come to an agreement with the media whereby members will be approached only for serious cultural panels and debates and never for reality TV shows.

Alternative Soho based creative agency Boggle, Boggle and Reynolds is currently working on a suitable logo for the project. Once this is completed, writers will be invited to apply for membership of the organization. A beret in either Quink royal blue or Waterman black is included in the starter pack as is an ink colour chart and a small packet of papyrus seeds.

Writers should express an interest in becoming members of The Artisan Writing Group by indicating below. Please include bank details.

 

Cindy oh Cindy

He had woken up with a fierce headache, breath that breached the Chemical Weapons Convention, and a nasty sense of foreboding. His brain hurt. He knew something was wrong. He knew he would have spent the better part of the previous evening trying to impress the new girl on the till at the local drugstore, and that he would have, probably, likely, definitely, have said something stupid, claimed a non-existing ability, promised something he was now committed to and would never in a month of Sundays be able to deliver. This wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

The phone rang. It was her. “A great evening. Thanks for that. Hope you got home okay. And so you’re going to do that for me? Run the marathon? Raise money for the cancer fund? That’s really sweet of you. I’ll pop the entry forms through your letter box this evening.”

Thirty eight years old and not in his prime. Not that he had ever had  a prime or foresaw himself as having one. “Show me a minicab driver who has a prime, who can flex a muscle, who can even bloody locate a muscle,” he thought to himself. Too much time behind the wheel. Too many kebabs or hamburgers or parcels of fish and chips – snatched meals taken whenever there was a lull in the job. Not exactly healthy. Not exactly regular. Run a marathon? Could never happen.

But she was sweet. Cindy. That’s her name. Newly divorced, new in town, new at the job, new at the till. And she had treated him sweetly. Happy to go out with him, happy to sit and chat in an ordinary bar. Didn’t need to be taken to a swish club so she could spend all his money on overpriced champagne substitutes. Insisted on paying for a couple of the rounds of drinks. She knows what life is really like. She’s got a few miles under the bonnet herself and it’s made her generous, unselfish. He likes her. It seems he likes her a lot. He wants her to like him. He wants her to admire him. And so, a drink or two down the road and his head spinning with what might be, he says yes, yes to supporting the charity, yes to running the marathon, yes to doing it for her. How could he refuse her? Sweet Cindy.

He knew how many miles there are in a marathon. More than his normal minicab trips, more than he could run in a million years. But Cindy, oh Cindy, he wasn’t going to let her down, he wasn’t going to say no. The forms arrived, the forms went off, and he worked on his training strategy, his tactics, his battle plan. He would get the medal, get the respect and get the girl.

He pored over the route of the race, he studied the town map, he marked up all the rat runs, hidden alleyways, and illegal short cuts that he had learnt when he was doing the Knowledge and he reckoned that if he turned up at the start, he could cross the finish line in about four and a half hours with having run only five miles. He knew he could do it. The downside was the five miles, but for Cindy he could do it. And so for the next few weeks before his shift, he walked, then jogged, then cantered, then galloped until he knew that the five miles (and hopefully Cindy) were in the bag.

It all went smoothly. He crossed the line with hundreds of others with a time of just under four and a half hours.

“My best time ever,” he said to the official handing out the medals.

“Respect,” said one of the policemen helping with crowd control.

“Oh, thank you,” said Cindy, kissing him full on the mouth. “Let’s meet up later.”

By the time he had fought the crowds back to his home, washed and shaved and put on his second best casual gear (he would save the best for another time) the list of runners who hadn’t passed through all the check points and were consequently automatically disqualified, had been published and tweeted and retweeted and his name was third on the list.

No medal, no respect, and no girl.

Early morning. The phone rings. It’s her. “You owe me five miles of sponsorship and I like the way you kiss. Can we meet up again tonight?”

How can he refuse her? Sweet Cindy.

Taking the veil

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Dear Mum,

You are understandably surprised that I’ve entered the convent, but I’ve done a deal with God who promises forgiveness as follows:

For dad, for his life of relentless womanising, especially with Aunt Betty, each occasion being a five star sin.

For you, for feeding dad a lifetime of vegan meals in a futile attempt to reduce his testosterone levels; that’s playing God and is a six star sin.

For me, for encouraging Aunt Betty because I really wanted some cousins, two stars bordering on three.

Do come and visit.

Agnes.

PS. I hope God doesn’t default on this.

Written for Sister Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge, found here.

I hope no Friday Fictioneers are offended by the star grades I’ve used but these are straight from the Book of Sins found in most public libraries; take it up with the publisher.

Neptune 1 Canute 0

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

It’s not every day that you bump into a royal princess on the beach on the second day of your summer holiday, but there she was, modestly dressed in her designer swimsuit, surfboard under her arm.

“Hej,” she said, “I’m Princess Gunhilda, Gunhilda Canute. From Copenhagen. Here to catch the waves.”

I gave a humble bow, mumbled a commoner’s greeting.

“That’s us over there,” she said, pointing at the cluster of royal caravans parked nearby.

“A bit below the tideline. You’ll get washed away,” I said.

“Intet problem,” she said, “My dad will fix it.”

He couldn’t, of course.

Written for HRH Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge, found here. I dare you.

Whoops

PHOTO PROMPT © Rowena Curtin

Robert de Niro knocked on our front door last Saturday afternoon. He said he liked the look of our garden, especially the way we had arranged our pot plants.

We invited him in for a cuppa. Mary offered him some scones which had just come out of the oven. He said yes as long as we had double cream and strawberry jam to go with them.

We chit-chatted about the garden and this and that and, naturally, the movies.

Mary said she particularly enjoyed him in Scent of a Woman.

He said, no no, that was actually the other guy.

Written in response to Marilyn Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

Now and then

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

Like most I hadn’t believed in an Afterlife, but, quelle surprise, here I am four weeks dead hovering low over my old town looking for the scumbag who loosened the wheel nuts on my faithful Ford Fiesta, the consequence of which was that my good missus had to bury me at a time she was meant to be choosing some new bedroom curtains.

We have privileges here. The one of current interest to me is the right to inflict unpleasantness on those who have caused offense back in the Beforelife.

I’m thinking of ten years of dysentery for Mister Spannerman.

Written for Reindeer Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word writing challenge found here.

One murky morning

PHOTO PROMPT © Peter Abbey

He clambers over the pier’s low gate. In this murky dawn light, the colours of his long coat and wide-brimmed hat are indiscernible. He carries a briefcase.

From the far end of the pier a woman watches him walking towards her. Other than raising a cigarette to her mouth every so often, she is perfectly still.

He is now immediately in front of her. They are obviously speaking. Hand movements and body language suggest considerable discordance.

He steps back, slumping. He places the briefcase on the ground, turns, slowly walks back towards the gate.

The woman shrugs, lights another cigarette.

Written for Marlboro Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge, found here.

Paranormal Nonsense

Read on blog or Reader doggerelbanksy posted: ” The piece below was written in Patrick Prinsloo’s Macclesfield Creative Writing Group’s workshop in which we were given a fairly comprehensive list of spooky things as a prompt. I’m still rather regretting not working in ‘and black magic shocks or should” doggerelbanksy Read on blog or Reader doggerelbanksy February 6 The piece below was written in Patrick Prinsloo’s Macclesfield Creative Writing Group’s workshop in which we were given a fairly comprehensive list of spooky things as a prompt. I’m still rather regretting not working in ‘and black magic shocks or should that read “chocs’. Try to bear with me over the deformation of English pronunciation in line 13 for the sake of rhyme! It’s a busy time coming up (not forgetting St. Valentine’s Day on 14th. February): ‘Poets and Pints’ open mike at the Button Warehouse on Wednesday 7th. February, KO 7.30; and Mark Rawlins’ ‘Poetry Pandemonium’ open mike at Mash Guru on Thursday, 15th. February, KO 8.30 with Joy Winkler and me as guest poets. Come along and enjoy if you’re within striking distance of Macclesfield. Paranormal Nonsense Voodoo may be fine, but I draw the line at a word like transmogrification. I feel that a séance should be in abeyance or I’ll rise up and do levitation. Crystal ball-like clairvoyance is one more annoyance. I say, “No” to a Ouija board outing. “Death to necromancy”. It’s way out too fancy, whilst astrology fills me with doubting. I ask myself why I don’t fear Evil Eye, though the consequence might just be tragic. I’m nearing an ending with Geller’s spoon bending which he achieved with black or white magic. What of poltergeist? I’m an avowed atheist, though I have seen a film called “Ghostbusters”. My exit is formal. The word “paranormal” conjures up the last stand of Custer’s. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

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An Estate Agent Speaks

PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Rouchard

And through here is the living room. Spacious. There’s the wood burner for those cold winter nights. Over there, behind the catafalque is the poltergeist’s little nook. It’s napping right now; quite tiring is poltergeisting. The Ouija board on that slab is included in the sale price – it’s particularly sensitive so handle with care. Those mirrors, necromancers just lurrrve ’em. The crystal ball? Not for sale; she’s taking it with her. Amulets and juju paraphernalia are stored in that display cabinet. That door leads down to the crypt; we suggest you keep it locked.

I sense we have a deal.

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

Time Line 2

Image copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

They lived in adjacent country cottages.
They held hands on the way to primary school.
She played Mary in the Xmas play.
He played Joseph.
Afterwards an innocent kiss.
He was sent away to private school.
She chose to stay local.
His school offered modern languages, classics, art.
Hers offered grammar, domestic sciences, housekeeping.
He became head boy and rugby captain at his school.
She finished school early.
He joined the Guards’ officer corps.
She became a traffic warden.
Every Wednesday she watched him on PMQs.
He probably wouldn’t recognise her.

He had skeletons in his closet.
She didn’t.

Written for Rochelle Green-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

The sister piece Time Line can be found here.

Time Line

Image copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

They lived in adjacent country cottages.
They held hands on the way to primary school.
She played Mary in the Xmas play.
He played Joseph.
Afterwards, an innocent kiss.
She was sent away to private school.
He stayed local.
Her school offered modern languages, classics, art.
His offered grammar, woodwork, technical drawing.
She went to Switzerland to finish her schooling.
He finished school early.
She studied PPE at Cambridge.
He could read, albeit not very fast.
Every evening he watched her reading the news on the BBC.
She probably wouldn’t recognise him.

He had dirt under his nails.
She didn’t.

Written for Rochelle Green-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

The sister piece, Time Line 2 can be found here.

Burns’ Night Rhyme

doggerelbanksy posted: ” Tomorrow across Scotland and round the world there will be celebrations to mark the birth of Scotland’s National poet, Robert Burns, born in 1759. I’ve partially updated a previous Burns’ Night poem to include some recent events on which he would certain” doggerelbanksy Read on blog or reader doggerelbanksy January 24 Tomorrow across Scotland and round the world there will be celebrations to mark the birth of Scotland’s National poet, Robert Burns, born in 1759. I’ve partially updated a previous Burns’ Night poem to include some recent events on which he would certainly have made his views known. Here’s to the great man. Burns’ Night Rhyme 2024! An opening door? Another Burns’ night’s round again. Our Rabbie (5 starred), the Immortal Bard, is toasted tonight, do ye ken? Ploughman Poet from Ayr, his natural flair for the feelings of his fellow Man touched our hearts to the core, now and evermore till mankind becomes one big clan And what would he think as we live on the brink in a world gone frankly quite mad. He’d pick up his pen as he did way back then and coin sound advice in verse clad. Take our EU Brexit which clearly wrecked it, appalled, he would say, “Man, you’re fou. It must be better to borders unfetter and bring Man togither, the noo. I canna believe it’s too late to retrieve it. Test the water with referenda, but tie selves in knots? Nae, be like canny Scots and adopt a long term agenda. And just one more thang ere “Auld Lang Syne” ye sang, the world’s now a place run by loons. We’re for the high jump with Donald J Trump, compromise displaced by High Noons. No Gary Cooper, he’s more party pooper. He’ll throw all his toys from the pram. We’ll be left in the dark and no Cutty Sark and no Meg to ride off on like Tam. Post-Hamas slaughter, Netanyahu, “No quarter!” The world must demand a ceasefire. Gaza’s innocent throng have suffered too long as death toll goes higher and higher. It masks the Ukraine, allows Putin to rain his drone bombs down with impunity. Attention span gone, of news we have none. We cannot concede him immunity. Grant us and gi’us to see as others see us in our time on this Earth which is brief, to love one another, treat all as a brother in one universal belief.” PS Here’s an addendum, my verses to end’em: King Charles the Third is now reigning. For me there’s no change. It may seem quite strange. I’ll stick to my EU remaining. Comment You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

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