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Tale of the Discombobulated

I waltzed into my writing workshop a wee bit early this evening, and Shaun, the instructor, was already there.

"So you're on this Friday night," he said. "Congratulations."

I thanked him and immediately wondered how the hell do you know? I don't think he reads these pages, and I hadn't mentioned it to him (although I've been telling everyone else and their brother.)

Turns out he's read there a couple of times, so maybe he's got an in with one, or both, of the organizers.

Fair enough.

"So it's a good thing?" I asked.

He said that indeed it was. The people that put it on are great to work with. The crowd is always eager to hear new writing and are all very supportive of the short story. They all have a glass of wine or two and it's a great energy.

"And they get a good turnout," he said. "Usually around a hundred or so people."


"Yeah, it's a lot of fun," he assured me. Later, at the beginning of the second half of the class, he pimped the event to the class ... all of whom are inspiring and make me feel like a hack every week.

I'm kinda shitting myself. But in an excited, this will be fun sort of way.

So come watch me poo my pants on Friday night.

Tales of the Decongested
The Gallery Space
2nd Floor
Foyles Bookshop,
113-119 Charing Cross Road

At least at WYSIWYG Chris would pass you a (semi-)mandatory swig of Southern Comfort to take the edge off.

:: :: ::

In other workshop related news, we read Greg Bottoms' "Imaginary Birds" from Sentimental, Heartbroken Rednecks tonight. Do you know it? It's beautiful. Go find it and enjoy his three-page, one-sentence worducopia.