Nige and I are in the Ladywell Tavern. Because he hurt his back falling off a step ladder the other day, we’re actually sitting down at a table for once. It’s November, quite a way on from the 5th but there are still fizzes and cracks and flashes of fireworks outside. A log fire throbs cosily in the hearth. It’s not a quiz, music, open mic or art exhibition launch night so things are relatively quiet.

“This writing class of yours,” says Nige. “Are you taking on new members?”

I quickly raise my glass to my lips, buying a bit of thinking time, because generally speaking, there’s nothing worse than passing professional comment on one’s family or friends’ writing work.

“Er, who did you have in mind?” I say, still trying to buy time.

“J K fecking Rowling, who do you think?”

I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t lack the skills and intelligence to be a writer. It’s just that –

“You’ve never shown much interest before,” I say.

“That’s because I didn’t think there was any money in it. But I’ve been reading about these self-publishing dudes who’re making a fortune, and no greedy publishers or weasely agents to take a cut.”

“The vast majority of self-publishers actually don’t make much money, Nige.”

“That’s because they’re not thinking commercially enough. I’ve got an idea for a whole new genre: Sex-Fi.”

“I don’t – ”

“Look, what do Sci-Fi nerds most miss out on?”

I take another long swallow of my pint, letting him carry on with the obvious.

“Sex!” he says. “So, if you combine the two, you’re going to get millions of horny but hopeless boffins throwing their cash at you.”

“But sex isn’t exactly absent from Science Fiction already, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s all so coy most of the time: Kirk pecks Uhura on the lips instead of giving her the ol’ warp drive at full thrust. So, the competition isn’t exactly stiff, is it? Ho ho. Anyway, I’ve been working on the blurby thing that goes on the back of the book. What do you think?”

He takes a sheet of folded A4 from his jacket pocket, smoothes it out and pushes it across the table to me. I read:

Starship Shaggers

by

Vas D. Eferens

In space no one can hear you come!

Donny Ozone signs on with the Salt Lake City Starship Mission to save alien souls. But he’s barely left the Solar System when he’s captured by a Pirate Propagation ship. To his eternal shame he’s hired out to do the one thing Earth men are good at: shagging!

After servicing the beautiful pirate leader, Vulvo Orificano, he becomes co-leader. Together, they build an empire based on sperm exchange.

Then Donny hears the Earth is under attack from a rival pirate gang.

Can he persuade Vulvo to help him save the Earth and become a Minister of souls once again?

Or is he doomed to spend his life seeding hot alien chicks who are more interested in his semen than his sermon?

“Well,” I say, “at least it seems to have a plot. Which puts it ahead of most of the books my writing group are working on.”

“And I’ve heard it said that writing a good blurb is harder than writing the book itself.”

“You’ll need a promotional website and a blog too,” I say. “And some sort of angle.”

“How about the fact I hate poetry?”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s wise to use negativity to – ”

“Have a read of this,” he says, passing me another sheet of paper.

I like to write them poems

Though I ain’t got much to say

But everyone else is at it

So I’ll write them anyway.

My life is pretty boring

Nearly all the time

But that sure won’t stop me

Putting it all in rhyme.

When one day I fall in love

And I hope it’ll be real soon

I’ll probably poemify that too

And get it to rhyme with moon.

My favourite flower of all

Must surely be the rose

It’s got symbolicy thorns

And rhymes with loads and loa(d)s.

I like to write them poems

They’re easier than novels

I can write them in the adverts

And never miss, um, hang on

… I can do it in my hovel?

I can write them in the adverts

They’re easier than novels …

No, wait a minute …

Okay, here we go –

I like to write them poems

They make my brain grov-el

For words but at least you don’t need

So many as for a nov-el.

I laugh. “That’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, but do you think I should join your fecking group?”

“Sure,” I say, knowing now that he won’t. “Come along next Wednesday. Bring a laptop or pad and pen, or in your case a dildo full of ink.”

The reason I know he won’t join the group is because Nige is too bright for the long haul of writing a novel, or even a short story. Writing requires a lot of boring discipline, application and regularity – stuff that wouldn’t be out of place in an insurance salesman.

The great challenge of being a writer is, therefore, on the one hand to develop dogged persistence while on the other to unleash passion to order.

“What time do you finish?” he says, mind already outside the mental classroom.

“In your case, about three pints before last orders,” I say.