Nige and I are in the Tavern for the first time since it’s been renovated. We’re sitting at a corner table, Nige for once foregoing the action at the bar, because he wants to take in the overall effects of the changes.

“It used to be a real pub,” he says, “now it’s trying too hard to pretend it’s one.”

He’s got a point. Whereas before the furniture didn’t match and the lighting was uneven, the place at least possessed non-corporate charm. Now, the eating area to our right looks like an American diner, and the furniture throughout can’t hide the fact it was bought as job lots. The bar staff also wear matching white shirts. Oh, and the prices have gone up.

Although I agree with him, I decide to use the situation to wind him up a bit.

“Come on,” I say, “at least now it’s providing for a wider demographic, not just embittered builder/decorators who still bring their own spit and sawdust in with them.”

He’s half way through a long swallow of beer and I take advantage to move the conversation on before he can launch into a long rant about how the present economy is very good at producing wealth for the wealthy while at the same time trying to kid the general population that it’s actually getting what it wants.

“I take it the date didn’t go very well last night,” I say.

He puts down his glass, frowning.

“She was a very nice woman,” he says. “Really intelligent; runs her own IT company. Took a genuine interest in me. Beautiful, too.”

He reaches for his glass again, still frowning.

“And?” I say.

He withdraws his hand, says, “And nothing, really. I mean, there was nothing wrong with the date, or her. Everything was nice and normal.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I thought it was. But I guess for it to be special, there had to be something different there. It don’t have to be perfection; in fact, that’s a killer when you think about it. And it don’t have to be laugh a minute, although that can help. It could be you have one hell of an argument but it’s a row with backbone, if that makes sense. Where you’re really sussing each other out at a deeper level. But when everything’s just okay and pleasant, well, you ain’t going to remember that for very long, are you?”

This time he picks up the glass, and I take a moment to think about what he’s said.

“Oh no,” he says, “you’ve got that look again.”

“Which one is that?”

“The one what says you’re going to use Nige’s love life as an analogy for your bleedin’ blog about writing.”

“Yes, but this is a good one. I’ve been talking about short stories, and so far only about what has to go on before you even start writing.”

He laughs. “I get it: there has to be something.”

“Yes, exactly. I read a lot of short stories that are perfectly okay but they don’t have anything different about them. They don’t give the reader something to remember, even if it’s an argument.”

“Just like one of Steve’s stories?”

We both look round quickly to make sure Steve isn’t in tonight. Steve likes to corner anyone he can and tell them stories about things that have happened to him. This might be the time he travelled first class on a train accidentally because he thought he was in second class and the ticket clerk didn’t even notice, or how he took over this slot machine in a pub, just as the bloke who’d been playing it all night went for a pee, put in a quid and won the jackpot then nipped out before said bloke came back from the loo, and so on.

“You wait for the punch line,” Nige says, “but it never comes.”

“And,” I say, “he tells the story the exact same way to whoever he’s telling it to.”

“So, in your damn analogy, Steve is someone who shouldn’t be writing because he ain’t got that anything worth saying.”

“Yes, he’s like a lot of writers: they want to be story-tellers more than they have a story to tell. Steve isn’t interested in the content, just that you listen.”

“So, the lesson is?”

It’s my turn to swallow some thinking-time beer.

“That if you want to be Steve the Story-teller,” I say, “pouring out mundane ‘stories’ to anyone who’ll listen and, who knows, one or two might actually get excited by mundanities, then you don’t need to do anything other than write about any old crap that comes to hand. You can just reach into your memory bag of other people’s stories, take out a few, swap around the details a bit, change the names and places, then call it your own.”

“Or?” He’s grinning because he senses nails and colours and masts appearing on my internal horizon.

“Or,” I say, “you respect the reader by taking the trouble to make sure that there’s something in your story that’s not ordinary. It can be a character you wished you knew in real life; or a plot that twists brilliantly in a way you didn’t expect but which holds up when you go back and read the story again; or it actually makes you laugh; or cry; or has a transcendent element that pings the feeling in all of us that we can be better somehow than we are.”

“Hey, now I’m feeling guilty,” says Nige.

“How come? You’re not a writer.”

 “Yeah, but I expected that woman last night to bring something to the date. Not sure that I did, though.”

I suppress the urge to tell him it’s not like that; that he’s an interesting bloke just the way he is. But I don’t, because he’s right. So often, we go on dates or attend business meetings, or just meet a mate in the pub, leaving the something to others to bring.

I think a lot of writers do the same. They want to be The Writer but they expect the reader somehow to bring the something different, extra, unusual to the relationship, or not. And maybe many readers do, or like the writer just don’t bother. For whatever reason, they’re happy to be The Reader, listening to Story-teller Steve. Or rather, not really listening, more endorsing the two easy, convenient roles.

“So, what are you going to do on the next date?” I say.

He finishes his beer and stands, ready to get two more. “Man up,” he says. “Stop farting about expecting women to be glamorous and dangerous and fascinating. Make sure I’m those things first.”

“Glamorous?” I say.

He pulls his long hair behind his ears. “Well, the manly equivalent: wash hair, shave nose hairs, put on clean underpants.”

He points to my glass. “Same again, Tel?”

“No, get me something different this time.”

He grins. “Anything?”

“Well, anything without an umbrella in it, obviously.”