h i THE MACALLAN

COMPETITION

Pen(al) colony

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2051 you were invited to provide extracts from the diary of someone undergoing the ordeal of a stay at a 'writers' colony'.

Having once won a literary prize, I believe I have the right to stay in a rural writers' retreat, but it's never occurred to me to go. The very idea of an agonised sub- Flaubert in the next room would send me howling to the nearest pub. I remember the shock of horror that ran through me when in the Fifties I was told that the Sillitoes, man and wife, wrote their books at the same table. 'Have you got the pencil- sharpener, Alan?'

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bottle of The Macallan The Malt Scotch whisky goes to Adrian Fry.

Monday: Blocked. Over breakfast, Hamish read from his new novel, a depressed Glaswegian alcoholic's monologue about death. Felicity began weeping. Hamish said, 'Don't be so mid- dle-class.' Felicity said she was crying because she'd split up with Marcus because he'd des- cribed her 'Couplets for Cats' as twee doggerel.

Tuesday: Still blocked. Attended discussion on failure. Marcus says it's the right and responsi- bility of writers in capitalist cultures to fail. We all had to read from failed works. Having failed to write anything, I was applauded.

Wednesday: Blocked again. Marcus accused Hamish's novel of being autobiographical. Ham- ish said just because the character in the book was exactly like him didn't mean it was him. Interminable argument ensued. Thursday: Wrote untitled poem: Creation from God's perspective. Hamish said it lacked authority. Marcus said so did God. Felicity and Marcus back together, collaborating on sequence of leftist, surrealist cat poems about oppressed

chairs. (Adrian Fry)

Self-doubt, great anxiety, little sleep. Fragments of dreams. Conrad, sitting on pile of manu- scripts, cackling. Bloody Evelyn Waugh again, just staring at me, saying nothing. Nobby Pitts came with bodyguard who sleeps in van in carpark with Nobby's first draft under his pillow: My Life in Welding. The women all over Pitts after his reading. Him and his Old

Holborn. 'Ooh, roll me one too, Nobby darling!'

Talk by Australian author about significance of something, went on a bit. Raised eyebrows at teatime (biscuits damp again) when we heard explosion and gunfire outside village. Apparent- ly petrol tanker crash, with snipers. Squid and olive risotto for dinner. Bed. Food-poisoning. Between naps reading Marcus Aurelius. Dreamt he had Rupert Murdoch flogged. Glad I came, learned much. ABCDEFGHI- JKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. Stick these little bastards in the right order and there you have it. Numero uno bestseller, Roller, yacht, Holly- wood. Got the title: Angst with an Attitude. (R.S. Potterton) Saturday: Reached villa. Missed terrace drinks. Shown to small room at rear of building, though distinctly recall telephoned promise of lake view. At dinner, novelist called out to describe his work-in-progress. My turn, I learn, on Thursday. Sunday: At breakfast, novelist admitted lying. Work not progressing. Return to room and spend two hours correcting English of word-pro- cessor manual. Go in search of paper-clips and enter discussion with American professor woman about Christian influences on Dickens. In afternoon, R. & R. on tennis-court. Really shall start writing tomorrow. Monday: Wake up reflecting on inadequacy of contribution to discussion of Dickens, but restore confidence with powerful opening paragraph to novel. Attempt to outline plot to Swedish neigh- bour at lunch reveals unsuspected flaws. Long walk in afternoon to lift spirits. Fails. So does negotiation to defer w-i-p talk until Friday.

Tuesday: Perhaps prose not true vocation. Will start long poem tomorrow. (Fergus Porter) Thursday: First evening. Eerie silence around the place. Told writers probably at home studying strategies for Hay-on-Wye.

Friday: Met some writers finally. Chat with ris- ing avant-garde author, very hot on poetic reality of Teletubbies. Held wool for elderly romantic novelist, photographed by visiting journalists. Trapped by experimental 'post-dramatic' play- wright, wants to free the spirit, nuns trapezing over audience, etc. Sitcom writer had panic attack, loud sobbing till two a.m.

Saturday: Venomous atmosphere. Authoress featured in today's Times Diary, she smug, rest muttering about brown envelopes. Geordie nov- elist turned up, swaggering mightily. Seems he's got season ticket for St James's Park. Subjected to unprovoked harangue from tearful poet, hates us all apparently. Evening: Incomprehensible pub session with minimalist travel writer.

Sunday: Big moment! Sprang my novel synop- sis on group mellowed by kipper breakfast. Sensed triumph of tact over mirth. NB. Add flash- backs, make Prime Minister gay. (Chris Tingley) Monday p.m.: Arrived. Couldn't find the tutors but told they'd gone to pub.

Tuesday: Sleepless night sharing small room with octogenarian and many boxes of his novel. He had violent nightmares about vanity publish- ers.

Wednesday: Food ghastly, as were the literary games and exercises. All asked to write a story beginning with the quotation, 'In the midst of life we are in debt.' Two members sent home for non-payment of fees.

Thursday: Tutorials timetabled but we couldn't track down either tutor. My turn to cook for the group. Burnt myself badly, so set- tled for boiled eggs.

Friday a.m.: Each of us read our story out. Ugly scene when the old man was accused of stealing his from an anthology by V.S. Pritchett. He apologised, insisting on giving us all remain- ing copies of his novel. p.m.: Woke up tutors,