Trying to be social…

Writing is a naturally insular occupation, so when I saw a social evening at the National Writer’s Centre in Norwich, I decided to go. After all, I live a 10-minute walk away. Also, Norwich is a UNESCO City of Literature, so what better place to be a writer?

Walking along the river on my way to the writer’s centre, I spotted a man up ahead of me. I decided he looked like a writer. So what does a writer look like? I hear you asking. Good question. He wore blue jeans, a casual jacket, and a beige shoulder bag. There was something about the way he walked, too. The truth is, he could have been anything, but typically, I was right.

“Why are you always right?” Asks my boyfriend, and he’s not being facetious; let’s just say I have a weird knack of second-guessing things. Intuition, if you like.

I followed the man into the Writer’s Centre and up the stairs to the large, beamed room where the event was being held. He paused, looking a little lost. There were a number of people there, and I guessed that, like me, he probably didn’t feel too comfortable not knowing anyone. So, I did something that is totally unlike me; I tapped him on the shoulder and told him how I’d followed him along the river, guessed where he was headed, and how amused I was to have been right, as usual.

At first, he looked a bit like a rabbit in the headlights. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m not some weird stalker.” Then he relaxed a bit and asked me why I said I was a writer and not an author. I explained that, as a writer of short stories, declaring myself an author sounds a bit grand. We chatted for a while about what constituted being able to call yourself an ‘author’.

The conversation led us, would you believe, to find out we live in the same apartment block. Given that there are many apartment blocks along the Wensum, this turned out to be quite a coincidence. Serendipity.

More and more people entered the room. We continued happily chatting away, then a young man came up to us and introduced himself. My first thought was how confident he was in doing this. I envied his natural ability to interject so politely and immediately seem genuinely interested in everything we had to say. The next thing I knew, we were talking about the series Desperate Housewives, which I am re-watching. I half expected horror at what might be considered ‘low-brow’ viewing, but instead he seemed delighted with this. Being a screenwriter, he, like me, appreciated the continuous action, the sharp dialogue, the wit, and the ability of the writers to keep it fresh for so many episodes. (Do I sound like Bree?) His friends then joined us, and before I knew it, there we were, a small group of writers who moments ago were complete strangers, chatting happily away.

Varying authors took the microphone to talk about their new books, all very different works: a children’s book, a book on meditation, a short story book, and a book about Norwich. Two writers in residence talked about their works of translation.

I didn’t know what to expect; I went with an open mind, but somehow I felt surprised. I suppose I thought it would be full of high-brow writers pontificating on the great books of our time. What the heck, I’ve read my fair share of Shakespeare, James Joyce, and a smattering of French classics. I could bluff my way through if it came to it, I thought, but it wasn’t like that at all. And now I am looking forward to the next one.

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