Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Emma arrived late, as usual, at our weekly writers’ lunch in The Blue Rooms cafe, Byram Arcade in Huddersfield. On this occasion, none of us were interested in the Perrinesque reason for her lateness because Emma was carrying the proof copy of Dining on WORDS . Our pre-lunch chatter ceased as the physical evidence of our co-labours was passed around the table to nods of approval and checks that our names were really on the back cover. The collection was created from pieces which first appeared on this blog. The lunches, initially a way for several ex and current creative writing students from Kirklees College to stay in touch, developed into a writing group where we support and encourage each other’s works-in-progress. Over time, we could see each other’s writing develop in range and confidence. We had publication successes to share, from articles to competitions and books, fiction and non-fiction. The blog encouraged us to keep writing – and to keep lunching – because our only fi

It took him the best part of three days to reach London, sleeping out under the stars, the dog on guard. It was the first time he’d ever set foot in the capital. His friend Jonas had told him about the inn by the river, cheap but clean, wholesome food and wholesome ale, which was more than could be said for many a hostelry. There was a glimpse of the Thames from the attic bedroom window and he caught sight of a boat moving slowly upstream. Lying on the bed with only his boots removed, Ork re-read the letter, whilst Digger slept on the threadbare rug. The script was neat, the letters well-formed. There was the occasional word that Ork had difficulty with, but after a moment’s reflection he recalled the meaning. The pamphlet was in the pocket of his jacket. The staircase was steep and twisting, unlit, without a handrail. He felt his way to the bottom, before taking his seat in the dimly-lit snug. A tankard of porter was placed on his table, alongside a platter of bread, cheese

My New Year’s Resolution is to write more (again). This year I’m going to write more, and I’m going to submit more. I’m going to enter writing competitions, and submit my work to magazines and websites. Yes I am.  So here I am sitting at my laptop, ready to go. I am surrounded by writing magazines to inspire and inform me.   They date back many months, and several are shamefully still in their postal polythene.   I leaf through their pages, which contain useful articles about how my social media profile can promote my novel, or the pros and cons of self-publishing.   I need an article entitled “How to Sit Down and Write Some Words”. Now that would be useful. I have a new “Writer’s Diary”, a Christmas gift which I requested especially, to help me to organise my writing. I flick through it. It is alarmingly blank (of course). I don’t have a plan.   I pluck up the courage to write my name and address on the front page, then close it again.  My inner critic

Leon is a very special boy.   Now, I know that everyone is special in their own way, but shall I tell you why Leon is so special?   Well, certain parts of his body can talk to each other.   Now that is special.  O ne day, some parts of Leon had a competition to decide who was best.   His lungs were the ones who started it. ‘Do you know that if our surface area was stretched out, we would cover the size of a tennis court?’ they boasted.   ‘A tennis court?’ replied Leon’s blood vessels.   ‘That’s nothing.   In Leon’s body, we are 96,000 km long.   That’s a distance of more than twice around the world.’   ‘Twice around the world?’   laughed the muscles.   ‘Leon cannot take a single step without 200 of us working together.   That’s a huge number, you know.’   ‘200?   That’s not a huge number,’ scoffed Leon’s skin.   ‘6 million.   Now there’s a huge number.   I shed 6 million particles every hour.’   At this point, the bacteria who live on Leon’s skin piped up.   ‘6 mi