Young Writers Society

I'm not sure how happy I am with this bit. I have such a putrid hate for rewriting that I thought I'd just post it and get it over with - please don't judge this as a piece in itself, this is just a necessary bridging chapter between two bits I actually quite like. I don't want to put anyone off though, so please read with an open mind! Forget everything I have just said. Any comments would be much appreciated!

First Chapter link: http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work.php?id=98795

P.S To all the poetry lovers who read this, I am deeply sorry for the views the character expresses about the subject. Its her fault, not mine!

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She doesn't think she is who she is. Not deep down. She's always felt that little nudge inside her, telling her "Look around you. Look at all these other people. You're not like them. You pretend, but you pretend for their sake not yours. You're different." This has kept her afloat. For better or for worse.

But if she's honest, she's no good at anything. She's average. And average is the worst you can be. It doesn't set you apart in any way. But she doesn't like to be honest, so where does that leave her?

It leaves her living in a little semi-detached in one of those repetitive towns that shroud London's peripheries. It leaves her a spinster, semi-unemployed, if that's even a thing, and utterly and entirely unremarkable. The neighbours don't know her - this isn't one of those places - and she does nothing no try and change this. To interact would be to admit this is what she'd become.

She drinks tea. She hates tea.

"I'm going to do something."

"Something big."

"Something that'll change the world."

At 59, she still has the dreams of an idealistic six year old. There's nothing wrong with idealism. She tells herself. Often.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

An idealistic six year old ponders this. This isn't meant to be a deep, probing question. The teacher just wants an answer. Cowboy. Astronaut. Ballerina. No answer? She moves on. Next child.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A zookeeper."

That's all that's needed. That child will do well in life.

She decides later as she stares out the car window. She wants to be a teacher . This doesn't come from any sense of injustice, she doesn't feel mistreated or betrayed by the profession, her dream is not a crusade to reignite the flame of teaching. She just thinks it would be fun. Living at school and all that.

Her dad is less than thrilled by the idea. He's that slightly right wing, self-righteous, business type. He throws words even he doesn't quite understand at his wide-eyed daughter. Pensions. Reforms. Governments. No, any respectable daughter of his will follow his footsteps. He's raised them well, it's in their blood. They'll leave university, Russell league, naturally, start a business, run a business, sell a business - stinking rich by 30. Then, as the father of three daughters, he will watch each of them get married, making that heart-warming speech at the wedding - stories of old boyfriends and teenage rebellions, before sending them off to fulfil their wifely duties - bearing, feeding, looking after children and the like. Of course his girls will have signed a prenuptial first, they're no fools, besides, who knows what could happen in this day and age. He does love his girls, he only wants what's best for them.

So, 53 years ago, maybe to the day - who knows? She doesn't. She does know she's not a teacher though. Never has been, never will. She hasn't even fulfilled any of her fathers aspirations. University was a joke, it doesn't even bear thinking about. Lets not go there now she tells herself. Stick the TV on. Business? A little bit of this, and a little bit of that. No, in other words. And marriage? The lonely lady, with a lukewarm, half-drunk cup of tea chuckles to herself in her drab living room. She glances down at her virgin ring finger. Marriage would've made my father's day, renewed his faith in his wide-eyed little girl. So, lets put a big cross in that box.

Despite all this, she still has that urge to do something. Be good at something. It shouldn't be too hard. Things look easy. Surely things should be what they look like?

Wouldn't that make it all better?

Poetry. That always looks a doddle. e.e Cummings. He couldn't even use grammar for fucks sake- not her, she's a proud holder of a 'B' grade in both English Lang. and English Lit. Whoop-de-do. Here's her recipe for first-class poetry:

You choose a situation, a lost lover etc.

Attribute some feelings to it. Sadness, anger, that sort of stuff.

Make it rhyme? Or is that too cheesy?

Wait for someone to find a meaning in it.

You can find meaning in anything if you look closely enough.

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In a country park in Sussex all sorts of mechanical wizardry is being brought onto the green. The grey of the sky is being sought to be eradicated by tungsten lighting and fake smiles. Diffusers, reflectors, tripods, metal contraptions that no one is quite sure of the correct usage. The photographer himself is a wiry sort of man. Mid 40's, curly light brown hair, lanky, dressed in black. The wannabe dramatist sort. He feels he can put his unique artistic spin on any repetitive commercial assignment he is given. He has the skill. Whether that's true, is not for him to decide.

His subjects, his muses, if you may, for today are Harper and Julianne Mitchell. The healthy, smiling, husband-and-wife face of countless campaigns, promoting anything from yoghurt to 'over 50's life insurance: call and receive a free pen' gambits. Today they're advertising luxury British retreats, for the retired professional. In this case, professional refers to anyone who can fork out fifteen hundred for a week with half-baked 'experts'. These holidays promise to 'inspire a new you', teaching you all you need to know about cooking or singing or tango dancing or whatever else you feel your life is missing. Harper and Julianne know exactly how to smile. Click. Read the book under the oak tree. Click. Wider smiles. Click. Perfect. Now sit by the little fountain. Click. You're loving this! Click.

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Cassie stumbles across the advert whilst checking her emails. She wonders how it chooses the adverts she sees. Has she specified her age? Or has it just made an educated guess, from the pitiful trickle of emails she receives, and the subscription - unused, she'd like to add- that she took out from 'Good Housekeeping', or one of those depressingly upbeat magazines. She glances back at the picture. They look happy, she thinks. Wide smiles, sitting by the fountain.

"Clifton Manor: exclusive 50+ breaks"

Click click. She doesn't really think about it. She wants to see more of the smiling couple. What's their secret?

---

It's an hour and a half later, and Cassie Black is feeling better. She's also feeling poorer. Significantly so. In two weeks time she'll be setting off to Clifton Manor. In three weeks time she'll be returning, triumphant, a certified 'expert' in creative literature, possibly specialising in poetry. Possibly not. Who knows? Ah, the delight of potential.

She ponders for a moment on whether to ring work. She feels she should. That's what any normal, employed person would do. Ring the boss. Ring the secretary. Ring whoever's job it is to care. Alert them of your impending adventure. Time enough to make the necessary arrangements. Then set off on your bank-busting, life-changing experience.

Maybe she should just quit.

They won't notice she's gone.

What to pack, what to pack? She thinks of the other attendees. She imagines them, sumptuous, educated voices; dripping in culture. Complete with views on any literature, musical or current event you can throw at them. Side-splitting recollections of misadventures in the City - "...and you will never believe what old Will said next...". The faithful wives, the voice of reason, chuckling lightly beside them - "Now, now George. That wasn't exactly how it happened now is it?". Her idea of hell.

But she knows how to play it. She spent years blagging it, flitting. She can be whoever or whatever the situation decrees. That's one thing she is good at. Years of practise.

So why's she going on this trip then, you ask? Good question. To prove something? To prove something to her father? No; she can't be that cliched. An inner bit of her, buried deep under layers of self-consciousness and solidified lies, knows the answer. But that's not getting out any time soon.