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Meetings are held on the first and third Tuesdays of the month at Dancox House Club Room, St Clements Gardens, St Johns, Worcester from 7.30 pm to 9.30pm.
If you want to know more about Worcester Writers' Circle, please telephone Sue Round, Secretary 01905 619062.
Probably the oldest writers' circle in the country, we have grown from half a dozen enthusiasts in the dark days of the Second World War, to a thriving and productive group of people who share their experiences, successes and pitfalls at each meeting. We have a wide range of writers, some published professionals, some occasionally appearing in magazines, and many newcomers eager to see their name in print.
At a normal meeting, we read from our work, sometimes on a theme set for the evening and we offer advice and reactions. A cup of tea and a chat of course, and discussions about markets, successes and rejections. Sometimes we have a speaker from amongst our ranks, or a guestjoining us for the evening. Our interests are wide - stories, Westerns, nostalgia, poetry, biography, roofing and cats have all featured at our meetings. If you can get to Worcester, (that's the one in Worcestershire, England) give us a try.
I had a dream
by Jane Waller
I have a dream that one day ALL men will have the vote. But that is a dream for tomorrow, not today.
We were full of hope. The so-called Great Reform Act had merely enfranchised the propertied. But where did that leave the artisan? The farm labourer? The factory hand? Are they not the foundation of England's greatness?
Me, I used to support O'Connor. Physical force seemed the only way to make those blind and privileged men in Parliament see sense. But O'Connor is a madman. He froths as he speaks. His laughter now echoes angrily and fatally through the Chartist movement.
Feargus O'Connor lost the money that hardworking men of toil contributed to buy land in the country. Feargus O'Connor led us to the tragedies of Preston and Carmarthen, tragedies that are a screaming testament to the failure of violence. We are not strong enough to stand up to the army. We have not the manpower or the weaponry to defeat the heirs of Waterloo, the heroes of the colonies. We are not the seed of Rebecca.
So, the schoolteacher, Lovett, and his moral force carried the day. Carried it into shambles. And as riots rock Europe – in France, in the German states, in Hungary – we, in England, the birthplace of modern parliamentary rule for the people, can offer no more than the abortive infant corpse of an aborted revolution.
We were all to gather on Kennington Common. A grand outpouring of working class power that would overawe Parliament and make them grant us our petition. Twice before, we had presented our hopes. Universal male suffrage. Annual parliamentary elections. Equal electoral districts. No property qualification and payment for MPs. Secret ballots. Twice, we had been rejected, jeered out-of-sight by those too self-satisfied to help their brothers. But the third time was to be different. Men of the soil, the loom and the hand, we would march through London, south to north, right to the door of Parliament, right to the entrance of privilege.
I travelled up by stagecoach from Worcester. Left my tailoring business to manage as it could so that I could serve this greater good, be part of this historical moment. In London, the size, the bustle, the sheer numbers of men on the streets made me think that all visions were possible. I had been given a dream and I believed.
Then it rained. Water out of the sky, running down slates and walls, rattling into gutters, rushing along drains, sweeping the refuse and the dreams away with it. Wet, stinging, heavy drops that drove the optimism out of man. Sapping, sinking rain that made you want to huddle by the fire with a beer, swapping tales of a glorious past and a better future. Present desires narrowed to the warmth of the body, rocked in a steamy haze of smoke that emanated from cigars, logs and drying clothes. Oh, England! Defeated by wetness, your spirits washed away by the deluge, leaving a legacy of ridicule and derision rather than admiration and triumph.
Not thousands, but hundreds only appeared on Kennington Common. Hundreds mocked by the one hundred and fifty thousand special constables sworn in to stop us.
We were halted at London Bridge. The wet seeped into our minds and clothes, soaking our spirits, dripping the confidence and hope down our bodies and into the river. A dampened O'Connor told us to disperse while over 100lb of pulpy wet paper was transported in three cabs to oblivion at Westminster. The shards of my dream floated down the river Thames with the drops of a rain shower.
Copyright © 2005 Jane Waller