Writer's Island : Chapter 2

    Nick was married. He knew women alright now. He had left his lovely wife behind on this jaunt. Writing was often a very antisocial hobby or activity. If he had brought her along she would have treated this as a holiday. Perhaps she would have tried a bit of writing while here, but she did not have the compulsion to do a lot of writing. She would have been too much of a distraction and she had plenty of other things she wanted to do while he was here. She would have a pleasant time in Tenby, have a few tours around the area and probably visit a few friends in this side of the country he imagined. If the weather was nice she would probably spend plenty of time on the beach, reading, observing, and eating ice creams.

     They had arrived at the quayside on the Island. The boatmen fastened the ropes to it and helped the writers out, one by one, with their bags. Nick insisted on putting his knapsack over his shoulders. He would not trust his writing with anyone, not even a boatman, but he gladly passed his small case with the few clothes in it. He walked up the sloping ramp onto the green island, and the lush trees beckoned him onto the island and along the path.

    His writer’s imagination flared. The island was calling him. The same magical effect seemed to be pulling some of the others. The lady in the black horn rimmed glasses still seemed unaffected, quiet, but she proceeded sensibly up the path.

19/7/19

     The island reminded him of the Narnia books by C.S.Lewis, and particularly of ‘The Voyage Of The Dawn Treador’, where the ship goes from one strange island to another. He could imagine the invisible Dufflepuds, hopping with their one legs up the path. The trees were large and magnificent, and it was evident that some of the vegetation was unique to the island. Apparently there were red squirrels here, protected from the grey squirrels, because this was an island and they could not invade.

     The path went along the coast above the quay and above the beach, and then cut inland through the old lush forest. The writers on this boat formed into little groups. Some of them were obviously friends and had come together in little groups.

    Hal did introduce himself, and by association Nick to another youngish woman, probably in her twenties. She was sweet looking and deep thinking, tall and slender, with shoulder length brown hair, and she wore casual jogging trousers, a colourful yellow T shirt and a cool sporty light jacket.

     “Hi guys, I am Tracy.”

     “Nice to meet you Tracy,” said Hal enthusiastically. “What do you do?”

     “Oh I like to do poetry – about whatever I feel like. Sometimes I follow poetic rules, and sometimes I like to just put what I feel onto the page. I like to shock or twist, to create the unexpected, or to twist reality.”

     “That sounds very interesting,” said Hal. “You must let us read a couple of examples.”

     “I will. That would be nice guys. What do you do Hal?”

     Hal told her about his novel ‘Prison Island’. She sounded interested, although Nick could see that she did not want too much detail at this stage.

    “And you Nick? What do you write?”

    He told her about his few serial or novel projects, without going into too much detail. He was well used to making sure he didn’t bore people with his writing exploits, until he got to know them a bit more. It would not do to scare people away with too much detail.

26/9/19

    As they walked leisurely through the lush green forest, all of them took pleasure and sustenance from its verdant creative growth. The dark haired lady with the black horn rimmed glasses became suddenly animated and sociable. “Here is the place,” she announced. “This is where most of the murders took place,” she declared, assuming everyone was particularly interested in her book. Nick usually preferred to avoid the grisly and dark subject of murder if he could and rarely wished to write about it, although he was guilty of writing about war sometimes. Actually he had written about war quite often, but usually in the background of his novels or stories, or not in too much gory detail. He supposed that without a bit of blood and gore occasionally many readers would find stories less compelling.