Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

Welcome to the life of a Greg. Every morning, for five days a week, I inhabit the rickety, sweat-filled 7.32 train across to Manchester for 62 juddering minutes. Surrounded by what I can only assume to be a plethora of Gregs in their uniform of a grey suit, grey tie, black shoes, we ride together solemnly and silently. Fidgeting now and again, we jostle along with the train’s movements as one. But not me, not anymore; the misery ends today. This affliction will haunt me no longer. No longer shall I be one of these lifeless chumps by whom I now find myself surrounded. You fools! Can you not feel the tedium of your lives? Do you not see the meaninglessness? Wake up! It's time for a new name. A new name, a new life. But what name should it be – what name is really Me? I could be Ignacio, the imperious. Hawthorne, the heroic. Reuben, the rascal! How about Keith? Keith! I know anything is a step up from Greg, but Keith? Well, for now you'll just have to call me Not Greg. Hang on....

I quite enjoyed this article recently  from 'Writers & Artists'...  David Savill busts a few 'golden rules' that we're taught for creative writing. Five Lies Creative Writing Teachers Tell What do you think? Do you agree with him? Post your comments below!

The Oldest Member occupied his usual seat, by the window, looking out over the golf course. As he sat his mind drifted back to the time when the view was of manicured greens, lush fairways, neatly pruned trees and bushes. The fairways and greens had been long subsumed by The Wild. No golfers measured their stately progress round the course any more, stroke by stroke. To venture out now would be instant death. His domain had shrunk to these few rooms on the first floor of the clubhouse. The ground floor was uninhabitable, at least by his kind. He knew that his time here was limited too. Every day the creepers reached higher, and the animals and god knew what else became bolder. He lived in squalor, eking out a miserable existence, always on guard, never truly relaxed, never fully asleep. But he was The Oldest Member. Muirfield Golf Club had always had an Oldest Member, and he was damn sure he wasn’t going to give in to the savage world without a fight. When he had first joined th...

Your love is an injury time winner  in the World Cup Final; a knockout punch. It's overtaking on Beckett's corner, or winning the National by ten lengths. It's a treble-twenty, a perfect score, a one-four-seven at the Crucible. It's the game, set and match at Wimbledon. Your love's like Istanbul, it's beautiful. Your kisses are a number one single at Christmas; a festival headliner. An anthem through the last term of High School; a slow dance at a Wedding in summer. They’re a disco beat with a hook to match; they’re spitting rhymes and waxing lyrical. They’re the Motown hits with the fingersnaps; your kisses are like Smokey, a miracle. by T. J. Dennett

Dreckenheimer opened up the Daily News and flipped through the headlines. Iced green tea and fiber bar to the right, list of clients, monies owed and deliverables due, to the left. He took a long, cold swig when a headline about an aspiring comedienne being carted off to the funny farm for stalking a local politician caught his eye. “Oy vey- what has this fakaktah schlumperdink done now?” the 75-year-old personal manager muttered to himself. He had thought he had seen it all. The article read: "Selena Markowitz, a former homeless woman whose comedy career peaked when she appeared on VH2’s stand-up Comedy Slam Showcase a couple of years ago, was taken to Bellevue Hospital earlier today for observation after security guards arrested Ms. Markowitz for allegedly stalking Democratic Presidential Candidate Stacey Smith’s office dressed in a bathrobe." Dreckenheimer had discovered Markowitz performing on the subway, but in fairness it was actually Markowitz who had ze...

I recently spotted this piece about time and writing in the Glimmertrain Press newsletter, and enjoyed it very much. I found many of the things Gabe Herron mentioned spoke to me. In particular, the quote:  "You must put time aside at the very moment you realize there isn't enough, that you have started too late, or from too far behind the start line, or both. You have to forget time because it's going to take how long it takes, not one minute longer, not one minute less." So I thought we should share it here on Cafe Aphra.  Gabe Herron on time and writing... and carpentry What do you think?  Did you find anything in this article that resonated with you? How do you deal with time and finding the time - or making the time - to write? Post your comments below...

There were footprints in the snow all the way to the phone box. Clare shivered outside while she waited for the caller to finish, warming herself with the last but one of the cigarettes she found in a crumpled packet in her coat pocket.  “Cold night”, the woman said as she pushed back the heavy glass door. “You’ve moved into Selkie Cottage haven’t you? Isn’t the phone working yet? That was supposed to have been fixed for you. You should speak to Gordon Ross. I’m Jean Moncrieff by the way.” “Anne Ramsay,” Clare lied. “I expect there’s been a delay. And I can’t get a signal on my mobile.” She forced a smile. “Aye, well I’ll not hold you up then. Goodnight.” “Goodnight.” Clare watched Jean Moncrieff walk back along the path, her black raincoat flapping against her legs like a nun’s habit. Clare waited until she was out of sight then carefully barred her number before dialling. “How safe are you?” Rob’s voice was a seductive whisper. Clare idly traced a glove...