A Fool's Vanity

I

A FOOL'S VANITY
How many times have you heard it said? `I was a fool to
have... married him, - believed her, - been taken in like that,
- listened to them..' Gullibility, that's the name of the game,
isn't it? A fool is gullible, trusting, naive, innocent,
someone who is taken for a ride because he lacks confidence to
act on his own initiative. Why do I keep thinking, if
the cap fits - wear it?
I joined this writing class, see. Our children were grown
up, living away from home, doing their own laundry, paying
their way so I had more time. I fancied writing; `I need to
get my teeth into something completely different.' I said.
There were about fifteen of us in the class. Most of us
spoke English, though not necessarily The Queen's English.
Some of us had a G.C.E. or three, some had an "A" Level or
two and a couple had degrees. A mixed bunch. Men and women.
Mixed ability, varied interests and experience, but we were all
of a certain age and we all had a yen to write and see our work
published. Heaven alone knows why! Possibly something to do
with gaining respect, boosting confidence and perhaps the
chance of an easy ride to the odd cheque or two.
We were to learn to write short stories with a beginning, a
middle and an end, (not necessarily in that order). Our tutor
told us to have a hook at the beginning to catch the interest
of the reader and keep it, to use dialogue to give the
characters credibility, in preference to descriptions which
take twice as long to give the reader the same information. We
must learn to tailor our work to a prescribed format while
maintaining our own style and achieving the correct word count.
`Remember to keep the same viewpoint throughout,' she said,
tugging at the heavy gold chain round her neck. `Not too many
characters, or in the space of a short story the reader can be
confused.' The reader can be confused! What about the writer?
`Write what you know; show don't tell,' she went on, and
something about suspension of disbelief...
I was in the class to learn to write like a professional.
I thought I wrote relatively well before I put my nose inside
the door; the tutor would help me polish my efforts and I'd
soon be in print. I'd been told I wrote entertaining letters so
it was only a matter of time.
I quickly discovered who was the biggest fool in the class!
I love words and I wanted to use them. When we came to write
our first homework I was going to show the tutor what I was
made of. I strung words together in a wonderful piece of
poetic writing which was music - to my ears anyway. I read it
out to the class slowly and distinctly, savouring every
syllable, but it didn't go down well.
In the nicest possible way, of course, our beloved tutor
tore apart my beautiful prose. Wrenched it sentence from
sentence. My grand beginning, designed to mesmerize the reader
with a description of the character and print his picture
indelibly on her mind, had to go. `It adds nothing to the
story! Better to start here, at the beginning of the second
paragraph..' she said, pointing it out with a long red finger
nail.
`But that was my favourite bit!' I protested.
`It's often the way, but don't be tempted to leave it in
just because you like it. Save that paragraph for your novel,
you'll have more space to play with in a novel. Was I going to
write a novel? At that precise moment I'd have been hard
pressed to write an acceptable shopping list. I had sweated
blood over that paragraph, determined to impress and what does
she do? She tells me to leave it out and avoid clich?s.
Why? I adore clich?s and face it, they're invariably true.
Suddenly I was hopeless, a lost cause. I lacked talent, had
no aptitude, couldn't write anything worth reading and probably
never would. To cap it all my spelling, and I used to pride
myself on that, had gone to the dogs. What a fool I was to
have paid good money to have my self confidence shattered in a
class where I had un-learnt everything I ever knew about
writing.
What of the rest of the class? Were they suffering too? I
stopped wallowing in my own misery, looked round and listened;
I found other people in the same boat, floundering, trying to
keep afloat, just like me. Perhaps I wasn't the only fool.
We came to the conclusion there is a Writers' Mafia at
large, keeping aspiring writers in the backwaters, destroying
their confidence, showing them what fools they are. This Mafia
lectures, runs competitions and conferences to boost their
income, extracting fees from fools like us who are trying to
win the odd prize to help cover expenses. Stamps, paper,
computer, printer; don't they add up? You've got to be a fool
to do it, there's no getting away from it.
Look at me now; please... Here I am, three, four, could be
five years on. I stopped going to the class three years ago,
and I've done some market research since. I'm reading again,
like I did before I went to that bloody class; I may spend less
time writing, but I enjoy it a lot more when I do bang a few
things out on the keyboard. I've improved too. I must have,
I had a poem printed in a magazine, for which I was paid ?3.
The magazine went into liquidation shortly after my poem went
into print but I don't think it was entirely my fault.
I won two short story competitions, and had my photograph
printed above one of them. I had no idea how many, or more
importantly, how few writers entered the competitions but I was
convinced I was on my way. Was I? Was I heckerslike! I've
had nothing since. Not a sniff, not even a short-listing.
That's two successes out of a hundred-and-seventeen
competitions entered! I sent twenty five items to publishers
and I have a stack of rejection slips to prove it. Five hadn't
the grace even to return my stamped, self-addressed envelope.
What do they do with them? Steam off the stamps? My total
income for the year was ?73! My expenses exceeded that figure
by ?3-23. Only a fool would go on trying.
My research included magazines as well as books. I borrowed
what expensive glossies I could. They pay well for their
stories if you can tune into their requirements; on the other
hand I wanted to write good strong imaginative stories. It
seemed I had two chances, either write about tempestuous love
affairs for which the glossies would shell out, or forget it. I
forgot it when I realised the same story appears in those
magazines, over and over again with a change of setting, names,
occupations and bed linen. I never was any good at writing
about sex. Not that I don't know about it you understand but,
I don't want everyone to know how I go about it; it could be
embarrassing.
I wasn't sure about crime and violence stories either, and
if I had been I'd probably have written more convincingly with
less need to try... if you see what I mean. Most of the
editors want true stories experienced by the writer, so
I've gone off that idea too.
I perused some of the not-so-glossies; those I read used
stories about marital problems or family life with all that
entails. How boring can you get? I've been there, done that.
My idea was to start leading the more glamorous life of a best
selling author.
So why do I keep trying? You may well ask. I must be crazy!
There's no fool like an old fool is there? I know it's stupid
of me to continue but my family keeps making encouraging
noises; only to keep me from interfering in their affairs I
know, but... I fall for it.
I'm giving it one more go; there's this competition coming
up in the New Year in which entrants are asked to write a short
story entitled The Fool. Could be I'm well equipped for that! I
have to say I'm tempted to enter. So if you wouldn't mind
turning back to page one and leaving out the first paragraph;
there should be a story there somewhere.

FINIS
1,466 words.