I visited a writing advice desk this week at Liverpool’s gorgeous Central Library. I took along my children’s book and received some excellent feedback.
While I was waiting for my turn to speak to the adviser, I hung around the plays section of the library (and read some Willy Russell) and I looked at the other people who were in front of my in the queue.
I was definitely the youngest person there and though I have the childish features of a man half my age I am still 30 years old. The men in front of me, and they were all men, were in their upper fifties/sixties. They were presenting the advisers with plays, poems, and short fiction that they had written for appraisal. They weren’t men coming from the university either, these men looked like working men who had just finished up work and come across.
They listened to the advisers with rapt attention and made notes and comments on their advice. When their time was done they were full of thanks and they had a look that I know all too well. Whatever they were writing, maybe they’ve hit a snag or a knot and they just needed a push to get them through, and these advisers had provided the push.
It made me proud to see these men, without shame or embarrassment, present their works to complete strangers to be scrutinised and picked apart.
Good on you lads.
*Here’s a few pics of the gorgeous library.
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