Introduction to Creative Writing.

Marcia had just twenty minutes before the intro to Creative writing class began. As she stood amongst the many passengers on the tube, she remembered that some food items and a magazine had to be bought for her mother. She struggled off the tube onto the crowded platform and climbed up the escalator steering her way through the weary crowd at Seven Sisters underground. Within minutes she’d reached the nearby supermarket, Tesco’s. It was teeming with shoppers enclosed in their coats and scarves, hauling their trolleys and baskets full of groceries.

Marcia picked up a basket feeling a little apprehensive and a touch excited at the same time. It had been 17 years since she last did any kind of ‘educational’ activity and many years since she’d attended an evening class. Writing remained a strong interest of hers; it wasn’t something she had been consistent with, but she knew with the right course and teacher plus her determination, she could be another Andrea Levy. These days, though, she felt more and more like an automaton doing her admin job and also found herself increasingly keeping company with her invalid mother whom she lived with. In one swoop, she picked up the magazine, placed the eggs and baked beans into the basket and then looked for a till where there wasn’t too much of a queue. Marcia was only 38 years old but she noticed with alarm she was losing herself more and more to a jaded and cynical view of life. She wondered how the hell that happened. The class would give her focus, a goal, she thought placing the items in the plastic bag, not noticing when the cashier wished her a good evening. It would stop her from succumbing to negative thoughts. She trekked through what little was left of the snow and noticed the flakes fall and land with a softness on the concrete ground. She hoped the snow would not settle.

As she shot through the automatic doors of the Marcus Garvey Library, the security guard told her without her asking, where the class was held. When Marcia entered the reference library, half of it had been sectioned off for the class and people had already arrived. A small number clustered round a set of tables, chatting knowingly about aspects of their lives. They laughed with a comfort making Marcia feel they didn’t take life too seriously. Others sat alone; trapped by their detachment. There was a certain type of expectancy they exuded, as if this time, depending on the genius of the tutor, they would be discovered. Marcia selected a table at the back of the room. She removed her coat and placed it on top of the chair.

The tutor, Betty Ross, came into the room alongside with others who quickly took their places. Everybody gawked at Betty like she was a minor celebrity. The atmosphere was charged with their enthusiasm to know her and what she could do for them. Marcia had read her books, seen her on TV (especially that stint on Question Time when she hinted that black people in the UK had not made any progress) and listened to her on Woman’s Hour. But as Marcia scanned the full room, she imagined there were some people there due to the adverts dotted around key places in Tottenham. There were familiar faces known to Marcia and they had recognized her but neither felt the need to greet each other. Marcia’s attention went to the front of the class where Betty stood, smiling. Her thick unlined flesh which made up her face belied her 60 years; her legs covered in woollen leggings emphasising and defining their shape were crossed at the ankles; and the books she had written peeked out from the top of her expensive handbag.

‘OK everyone, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Betty Ross. I’m so happy that you’ve taken time to come and learn something about writing. Remember, y’all here because you are meant to be here. Now, I want to lay down a few ground rules before we start…..’

She stopped and faced her escorts who interrupted because they wanted to introduce her to the librarians. Several people relieved their impatience by helping themselves to refreshments on the table. Marcia watched them go back and forth, behaving as if they had not come across different brands of refreshments before. A man even took the opportunity to distribute leaflets to everyone and in a brief sentence, gave the time and venue. Marcia picked up the leaflet and read. The man, Linton Joseph, was looking to promote himself as a potential candidate to run as MP for Tottenham. As this was an election year, he wanted people to attend a local meeting where he would advocate the changes he’d make once elected. He devoted a few lines to accusing the current MP for expenses scandal and choosing to abscond to live in another borough! Vote for Change the leaflet said.

‘Hmm!’ Marcia smirked as she dropped the leaflet on the table. Hadn’t she heard all that before?
‘OK sorry about that...’ Betty said quickly forcing the librarians to scuttle away and sit at one of tables. ‘.....as I was saying.... y’all know I write myself but I don’t know the tricks other than the obvious - you just have to get on with it! Knowing publishers and having contacts - I don’t know of any and as y’all know things are pretty rough out there, publishers are selective with what they choose to publish. I don’t particularly critique people’s work and I don’t want to judge anybody’s work. And not only that, I find it pretty disorientating to be reading other peoples work when I’m writing. It’s distracting! Have any of you guys tried doing that...’ She surveyed the class and waited for a response. ‘OK, no-one. It really is difficult, you should try it! And finally for those of you who’ve just come to have a look or who are not serious, then maybe this isn’t the place for you. OK guys! Right!’

Marcia didn’t have to look around to take in people’s responses. It was as if the energy of the class had grounded to a halt. Like they hadn’t heard a word but still waiting for Betty to say or do something that would affect their lives. Marcia took a deep breath trying hard to suppress the growing negativity that could be likened to bile rising in her stomach. With a flash of annoyance, she removed her long braids dangling in her face and when she looked up to Betty, she was already staring at Marcia. Her thoughts were jolted by the sudden cold draught brought in by a late comer. He sat at the table next to Marcia’s, pulled out a flash looking exercise book and dropped his equally flash pen on top of it. He removed what looked like manuscripts from his duffel bag and placed all three on top of his book with precision and importance. An elderly woman sitting two seats away, experienced a sudden feeling of panic. She stretched over to him.

‘Please, do you have any spare paper? I forget to bring some paper,’ she asked. The man, with great care, removed the manuscripts placing them neatly on one side, tore out blank sheets from the book and handed them over, without looking her.

‘Thank you m’dear, thank you’, she said smiling.
He then whispered in a loud tone to the man next to him if he could tell him what was going on. The man responded by shrugging his shoulders.

‘OK everyone I want you take a sheet from your exercise book, write just a sentence on any topic or subject but keep it hidden from your neighbour. When I say ‘stop’ pass the paper with your sentence to the person sitting next to you on your right and the person on your left, passes their paper with their sentence onto you. And you continue this until I say ‘stop’. OK, everybody got that? Begin.’ Her voice had an American accent and it was soothing with a slight edge.

The exercise was for fifteen minutes allowing people to write a number of sentences on different sheets of paper. There were some people who still got up to get themselves a drink and there were others who stared at the blank paper and missed their turn when the sheet arrived in front of them. Marcia came up with an idea which she was able to write about it each time a different paper was in her hands. She was pleased with this. When Betty had ended the task, she asked the class how they felt about the exercise. Some people made constructive comments whereas others made comments that were off course.

Betty’s eyes twinkled as she smiled, showing a concern that Marcia wondered if it was real. She had an assurance that Marcia didn’t like. An assurance that said she couldn’t be pigeon holed by class and an assurance that racism was no longer an issue for her. Where did such confidence come from Marcia asked herself. Was if just because Betty had seen things during the civil rights movements, and able to talk about the legacy left behind by the legendary Martin Luther King. Marcia could see how Betty’s experiences could be intriguing to the Liberals; and use her uniqueness to sell a certain type of viewpoint, not because she was an American, but an African one. But there she was, with an air that said, she knew what was best.

'OK folks! I’m glad y’all enjoyed that. Now there is something that I want you all to do for me. I want you to write something about your life in London. What’s it like? It can be about you or someone else, or you can do it first pov or third pov – whichever! On A4 size paper. I just want four pages if word processed or six pages if it is handwritten. I’m going to be quite busy so let’s say I’ll be back here in 3 months time. Did y’all get that? Any questions?’ She asked.

An array of questions flooded the floor. The man who came in late had already placed his manuscripts and books into his bag, then got up and left. The people who sat alone and remained inactive throughout other than doing the exercise, all got up and followed each other in silence as if they’d finished watching a movie and it was time to leave. How do we get in touch? I need to publish my material quick, can’t you help? Seeing you in two months, isn’t that a bit long? Her responses were intermingled with thanking every one for turning up to reminding people what she wanted them to do while struggling to place her arm through her coat. Marcia buttoned up the front of her coat and stood up. Whilst being surrounded by the remaining members of the class, Betty saw Marcia turn to leave and called out to her.

‘I hope I will see you in a couple of months.’ Again Betty gave a big smile.
‘Of course I’ll be back’ answered Marcia, mustering a smile, hoping that what she gave was just as generous and made her way down the stair case.

As Marcia walked through the automatic doors and the met the ice cold wind and a layer of untouched snow, Marcia imagined Betty leaving to dine with her liberal friends who made up the Great and the Good. But Marcia wondered how many people, like herself and others in the class would be there.