Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Note: This is what I call a patchwork of anecdotes.  All occurrences described did happen but certainly not all on the same day...  A woman lays a copy of An Orphan's Courage by Cathy Sharp on the counter. She opens it.             "I was halfway through when I noticed this."             The left hand page is marked 186, the right 201. Fourteen pages are missing. No obvious tearing: a probable misprint. Still, very odd.             The red-headed woman laughs. "I get the feeling that might have been the best bit."             A reservation is made for a copy that is actually complete.             There is commotion to the right, at the table where the newspapers are kept. A male septuagenarian stands over a female octogenarian.             "I just want to read today's headlines!" the fidgety man says.             The stiff woman glares up at him. "I was here first!"             The fidgety man lands heavily on

Five years ago today the first Writers’ Lunch blog post appeared. 261 posts and over 125,000 words later, it is still going strong. The first post, by Emma Harding, was a simple manifesto which has served the lunchers and contributors well. I recommend reading the post, but the essence lies in this quote - ‘we have found that it helps to help each other.’ Over the five years the numbers for the weekly lunch, in a café in Huddersfield, have expanded, contracted and expanded again. There is no quorum, no constitution, no membership, no fees and no requirement to post. Over 20 different writers have contributed with a range of stories, poems, and creative non-fiction. With regard to fiction, there must some genres we have not covered, but writers have used the blog opportunity to experiment with their style and try something different. All contributors are taking steps in the process that makes a writer – building up a body of work, distinctive to that individual. A number of co

You watched the wind blow in from the west. It was fierce and rapid. It meant business. Everyone was preparing – boarding up windows, reinforcing doors and taking shelter in basements. Not you. The fascination of watching a meteorological phenomenon was too much of a draw. No matter what scare stories were told, the refusal to believe any harm would come to you was steadfast. No one else would be watching this, so it had to be done. Sounds echoed of frantic preparations being made. The sense of fear was palpable, enticing. Watching the panic was enjoyable, although you couldn’t say why. Maybe because the human race lost the tendency to politeness when they were rushing. You, in stark contrast, were as chilled as could be.   Nothing fazed you, definitely not some demonstration by the natural world. That was just an example of power that proved nothing. You had the real power. As more humans ran from the scene, apparently in the ridiculous belief that their homes were reasona

New York 1971. Alex Cameron, a New York Times Best Selling author and top feature writer, was pacing the floor of her writing room in a state of agitation, her face looked stressed which spoilt her good looks. Another magazine assignment stared at her from under a large paperweight that sat on the desk, as if daring her to write it. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply, feeling the initial dizziness of the first nicotine hit of the day, poured a drink from the hot coffee jug and took a draught, straight down in one.   Outside it was getting lighter with every second; she took a look at her watch, twice, not believing what she saw the first time. “My god, four hours?” Her 5’10” frame sagged, feeling the pressure. She ran her hand through her long auburn hair, lips pursed.   She couldn’t afford not to deliver on this one; there was a new guy at the top and she got the impression he didn’t like her. Reluctantly she walked out of her room to the landing and shouted down the stair wel