You’re a bookish child: you read from the age of three and you’re onto the classics by the time you’re eight: the patterns of fiction are embedded in your brain. And it’s not just you: you’re a teacher of English and every so often there’s a child with that verbal facility and imagination and wisdom way beyond their years, and you know, just know that writers are born. Anyway, you write a short story and it’s accepted by a top literary magazine. Creative Writing courses? Strictly for the mediocre birds!
But then, oh! You find yourself with a new baby in a strange town and you’re going crazy with isolation, so crazy you go to a Creative Writing workshop. You sit at a table with some people who’ve published in places like the parish magazine. You save their feelings by not telling them where you’ve published. They pull your story to shreds. One tweedy old buffer explains to you the basics of (conventional) writing. Stories are like rose bushes, he tells you, with reference to your deliberately rhetorical repetition: you need to prune. Creative Writing workshops? Wouldn’t touch them again with a barge pole!







