Programme
Story List
Links
Members
Writers' Blog
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.
The Trouble with Fire - II
by Susan Davidson
The trouble with fire is that I love it but I don't often see the real thing any more. It fascinates me; I could stare at it for hours. We don't have a real fire any more at home now. We have one of those awful pretend coal fires, which is really a gas fire. It imparts a certain amount of atmosphere but is boringly predictable. A rogue flame will never leap up unexpectedly, a cinder will never pop and cause your heart to miss a beat. The flames don't dance, or if they do, it's more like line dancing than ballet.
As a child I loved our real coal fire. I loved throwing different things into it to see how they burned; hair, paper, toothpicks, toenail clippings, matches (Swan Vestas were the best).
But the greatest thrill of all was a bonfire. The only activity my brother and I could share without arguing was building and then watching a bonfire in the back garden. I can't believe my mother trusted us with it now. I think she was just too busy to be bothered about it. We would occasionally filch an illicit cigarette from her small stash in the kitchen, knowing that the lingering smell of the bonfire on our clothes would mask that of the tobacco smoke. We would watch the flames together and talk idly, or smoke, or sometimes just sit in silent contemplation. It made me feel terribly grown up somehow. I never worried about being cold - though we only ever did this in the winter. Well, what fun is a bonfire on a light summer evening? We were always reluctant to come in when called, and would have loved to stay out until the last ember finally died.
I only see my brother once or twice a year now. We don't quite know what to say to each other beyond how our kids are and what's good on the telly. Silences are awkward moments now, not shared luxuries. The next time I see him I'm going to remind him about the bonfires, to see if our memories match. I'll be devastated if he doesn't remember them. Or perhaps it will turn out that I exaggerated the frequency in my memory, and there were only ever one or two bonfires.
Could we re-create the experience? I doubt it. I would mind the cold now, and my back would give me jip if I sat on the ground for that long. But if my big brother did remember those times, with some affection, that would be enough for me.
Copyright © 2004 Susan Davidson