A writer must make sacrifices

First act of supreme selfishness and I’m already feeling guilty.  It’s my husband’s birthday today.  I made him a cup of tea in bed, but since he opened his present on Sunday – a huge plastic tub that looks like it’s full of emulsion paint but is actually protein power.  And he’s had his birthday meal, a Chinese in Fareham on Saturday.  It felt like a bit of a non event, I didn’t put early as much effort in or go OTT like I usually do. 

So with a sitter booked we should be going to watch A Man on a Ledge at the cinema.  It wouldn’t be such a hardship, I fancy seeing it myself.  But a writer must make sacrifices, and why should they be their own?

My husband’s birthday treat is going to The Live Short Story Evening at Rosie’s Wine Bar in Portsmouth.  You get six minutes to read your story and the top three stories win a cash prize.  My writers group went last year and I came second.  I’m not a gracious winner and I was doing my victory dance and demanding someone take a picture of me and my loot, when one of the ladies from the group suggested I only won because the group voted for me.  So although members of my writing group know and have been invited along to Rosie’s tonight, I haven’t pushed the event. 

Plus I also know that Margaret who is an amazing writer will be there, so it will be harsh competition tonight.