Friday was writing group morning. A small, intimate group of good friends, started by the lovely Jilly. Always enjoy it. We read out any works done, or just listen, and give one another gentle critiques. They're brilliant. It's certainly encouraged me on with The Novel, and giving me huge confidence with it, cuz I was so self conscious and embarrassed about it. But as Husband keeps telling me: 'When you see what's published out there, what's so wrong with yours?' 'Well - there's violence, sex, blood, sexuality...' 'Your point being?' He adds. Now I've joined another umpteen Facebook fiction writing groups, and I'm getting back such positive feedback, I said: 'Why didn't I do this years ago?' Husband says: 'Forget that. It's now. Make the most of it.' Such wisdom.
We have a piece of writing for a competition. 'Remembrance'. To be done in time for Rememberance Sunday. This is my offering.
My Mother the Listener
She'd always said that she'd been the lowest of the low. When I found out in latter years what she'd actually done, I was surprised.
In 1942-ish, a photograph of a group of WRENS in front of their quarters, Hotel Cecil, in Scarborough, shows her cap askance further than any. Figures. Dad loved his strong, stubborn birds.
My recent reading matter concerned Bletchley Park and the listeners. Fascinating. Since then, I discovered that Pammy - as she preferred to be known – had been a listener. She'd described being in front of her radio, earphones clamped to head, hands clamped to phones, face lowered, listening intently for signals. You intercepted a code, shot your arm up and shouted for the duty officer. Didn't happen often.
Lowest of the low? I beg to differ. Just her way of keeping mum.