Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

 Is writing an art or a craft? Does it come from natural talent or hard graft? Are you born a writer or can you learn to be one? Recent debate about the value of creative writing courses – stirred up by Hanif Kureshi who disputed whether such courses could ever deliver good writing (despite teaching one himself) – has pondered the perennial question of whether writing is something that can be taught. Or is it the case that you’ve either got it or you haven’t? B ut this debate’s based on a false premise. That writing is a single process – have an idea ... write it down. When actually it’s (at least) two. Writing and editing. Two separate activities. Demanding different skills. And when you look at it that way, it’s clear that writing is both an art and a craft. You need to have a story to tell, an interesting perspective on the world, a head full of engaging characters. No one else can put those ideas in your head. Of course this is not to say that ideas are formed in a vacuum

I am empty-handed, and so I go for a walk, Amongst the sticky buds and poking green I find it - Smooth as stone An enigma sealed tight Taut with possibility. Don’t grasp, It will crush Leaving nothing. I nurture it, warm it, Hold it close as a secret Mindful as a new mother I turn it over, examine it for signs Of what it will become. I watch. And it begins. Don’t hurry it Don’t force it into the light It will burn in the glare of exposure. It emerges Reveals its nascent form I touch it, hear its breath, Feel its heartbeat. It stumbles, An imperfect, uncertain thing Unfurling, pulsing with the life I gave it. It flutters, Stutters across the page And takes flight.

From a seat by the window I can see the restless, grey lake. A boat moves jerkily out of view propelled by inexpert rowers anxious to reach the deserted jetty. Heels click on the quarry tiled floor, black, highly polished, tightly laced shoes, the waiter making his presence known, the showman displaying his on-stage skills. He tells me I shouldn't miss the fish chowder. I nod and add the obligatory Americano with cold milk. His metallic studs recede, the swing door barely slowing his determined progress, through to the steam-filled kitchen. Silver boots with small heels emerge, tray balanced with accustomed ease, on outstretched hand, teapot, milk jug, cups, saucers, scones, jam, cream eagerly awaited at table six. The two women exchange cruise stories in gradually rising voices. A brief silence whilst crockery is organised, milk and tea poured, sugar spooned, scones cut and spread. The tales of disembarking at Venice continue. The waitress glances momentarily at her silver boo

THE JOY OF WRITING I searched for inspiration but nothing could I find. I trawled my tired and fuddled brain, every quadrant of my mind. I tried in vain to mind-map but my writing pad stayed blank. Perhaps some soothing music would help but into a doze I sank. So next, I thought I'd meditate. Maybe help would come. I sat on the floor and closed my eyes, contemplated 'til my bum was numb. But still no muse, no creative ideas entered my empty head. So I thought I'd completely distract myself and take a bath instead. One hour later, back I came, with wrinkled fingers and toes. Warm, relaxed and clean was I, pen poised, still nothing shows. And then I turned to alcohol to try to free my head. Purely in the pursuit of art, you know, I emptied a bottle of red. Frustrated, disheartened, fed up I became and so I deserted my pen. I  resorted to cleaning 'neath the kitchen sink and tidying the den. I was

How did the writers who lunch meet?   We met through an Adult Education Course at Kirklees College called ‘Creative Writing for Beginners.’   This is not the type of class where you ‘bring a friend’.   The chances are that you will be unique among your friends and they will view you with a mixture of awe and bafflement.   So we pitched up alone, a brave shot in the dark in which you trust in fate that you will find like minded folk who will accept you and might even like you.   Added to this, you will soon be reading out your work, whereby you might as well be shining a light into your soul.   Risky maybe, but don’t most things that are worth having in life involve an element of risk? That introductory week we were set our first homework task, a short piece of fiction. Yes, homework.   It’s just like being back at school again.   Old habits die hard.   If you left it to the last minute then, you will inevitably do so now. Reading out your work is at once terrifying and