Tuesday, 1 March 2011
People who want to write for Profit
I sat down to wait and the class soon started to dribble back to the classroom carrying coffee and Coke cans. I wonder how we would all survive without our favourite stimulants? With some dismay I realise that the class is made up almost entirely of women, the one man could be described as thinking woman's crumpet and a very nice crumpet he was, too with his distinguished grey hair and intellectual looking glasses. I'm too married and too shy to actually flirt with a man like that, at least for the first half hour, but all flirtatious fantasies were dashed when I realised he was there with his partner. The happy couple were seated near an eighties obsessed paranormal loving weirdo who spoke in a strangely low voice and seemed blithely unaware that she might appear to be a teeny bit off the planet. The oldest of the group was one of those massively groomed ladies whose age can only be determined as higher than she would like. Who else would bother with the dying, the blow drying, the foundation, lipstick, manicure....just looking at her made me feel impoverished and tired. The beautiful Indian lady says very little, the self described green living aficionado next to me doesn't look so green when I consider the petrochemicals used in her flourescent nail polish or the toxic organic chemistry involved in her unnaturally black hair. On my other side is a woman declares herself to be thirty five but her skin is more like that of a thirty year old, her eyes have none of the tiredness of family and career and I envy her a little until I realise that her child-like way of starting every question with "Sorry" makes me want to scream. In her favour, she gives us a good five minutes, maybe ten, of side splitting laughter as she reads her introduction to a proposed piece of writing about men and their Brazilians (and she didn't mean South American soccer players) The writing is great but even better is her self conscious disclaimer that even though she has a broad experience of hair free men she is no slut. She plays nervously with her hair as we fall about laughing and she digs herself deeper into the quagmire of embarrassment. One woman wants to write a book about family traditions but seems unable to tell us anything more and what could be a fascinating idea is lost to lack of specificity. As I quietly decide that a lot of these people seem more interested in themselves than in writing I also realise that I am an unbearable snob, not in the sense that money or status impress me but I really cannot bear pretenders and without fair trial I have convicted this lot as just that.