I was sitting at my favourite spot,
in the coffee shop, books and notebooks
stacked on the table, like a student
all-night cramming for an exam,
looking forward to a few hours
of reading and writing.
A figure approached my table,
poring over my writings with interest.
I looked up from my papers with a
can-I-help-you? smile.
You’re on your own, I see. They said.
Where is your writing group?
Where are your fellow writers?
Surely you meet up for coffee
and a catch up,
to compare notes with
your fellow scribes?
Not really, I find writing is something
I enjoy doing on my own, I said,
hoping they would take the hint
and leave me to my fictional characters
and worlds of my own imagining.
But you must meet up with other writers,
to discuss and exchange ideas.
There will be a writers group in the area,
maybe meeting in this very coffee shop.
I mumbled and shrugged,
trying to come up with an answer.
Well, my dad reads and critiques my stuff,
my mum doesn’t and says they\'re great.
But where is your crowd, your clique,
your group of like-minded souls?
I pointed to my stack of books on the table,
Dylan Thomas, Wordsworth and Kerouac.
Shakespeare, Ray Bradbury and George Orwell.
There is my writing community, I said, right there.
Now you’re just being silly, they replied.
Could you ask for better company? I asked.
You have to admit, that’s a fine circle to mix with.
It was their turn to be lost for words,
as they finally left me to my tea and my writing.