The Writers' Guild

My darling wife Cecile had advised me that Charity Snow-Warren had telephoned, saying the family wanted to visit. As such, it wasn't too much of a surprise when there was a rhythmic knock on the door. I could have predicted that it was Hope, probably rapping out a phrase from a popular song.

Of the two Snow-Warren sisters, Hope is the more extrovert. She is fiercely protective of her elder, quieter sister Susan and the one more likely to make me want to laugh. When I opened the door, she seemed quite excited and striving to hold something back.

 

"Hi, Uncle Jack. Are Beverley and the boys free? Me and Susan want to chat to them. Oh, and Dad and the others are following."

Straight to the point, as usual. I gestured for them to come in.

"They're in their rooms. Go on up."

Hope rapidly walked down the hall, talking over her shoulder. "Thanks. I'll go and see Orton and Brendan, Suze, if you can get Beverley..."

Susan passed me, mouthing, "Sorry."

There was no need for her apology. We were used to Hope's manner and it helped make life more interesting. Besides, I could see Chris and Charity approaching the door, pushing Connor in the pram.

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When we settled we engaged in small talk and I was getting the impression we were waiting for something. This proved to be the reappearance of the children.

Charity addressed her daughters. "Good. As promised, we've not said anything until you had everyone present."

"Uncle Merlin and Aunt Eliza aren't here," commented Brendan.

"Well, I'm sure your daddy will be able to update them," said Charity.

Orton nodded at Brendan and my son refrained from further comment.

"What's this about, Charity?" said Cecile.

 

"My husband wants additional advice. Tell them, Chris," said Charity.

My best friend and songwriting partner is sometimes painfully modest. Whilst he is more than happy to promote our joint efforts, this does  not apply to his solo works and he frequently talks down his considerable skills. If "big head" is a term that pertains to  boastful individuals, Chris has a truly small head.

"Well," he said, "It's about the Writers' Guild. For some reason - and I'm sure they've overreacted - after all they have proper writers like Fliss Robinson and Ricardo Porcini here in Mellowdene... They have famous novels and learned tomes published to be read all over Sylvania..."

"Dad!" said Hope. "Tell them."  

Chris gave an embarrassed smile. "They've invited me to be a member."

"They will give him a certificate and everything," said Hope.

"Congratulations, pal," I said, squeezing his shoulder.

"But I'm not a proper writer," said my modest friend. 

Charity sighed. "He's been like this ever since he found out. He needs advice. I've told him but he thinks I'm biased."

"Did the Writers' Guild say why they want Chris?" said Cecile. "They must have a good reason. Perhaps if that was made clearer the issue of worthiness wouldn't be a problem."

 

"Sylvan River," said Hope. "Oops. Shouldn't have said. Go on, Dad. I can't hold it in forever."

Charity raised her eyes and Chris smiled. "All right, Hope." He paused to organise his words. "Okay. You remember that the scriptwriters pressed me to include some of my lyrics in the script? And then they asked me to expand some of my ideas to help merge those lyrics into the rest of their narrative?"

"I do," I replied. "They liked your turn of phrase and appreciated the research you'd done with the source material and beyond. I remember you being uncertain when they wanted to include your name in the credits and me having to persuade you. Especially when they said how much you'd done."

"Yes. Well,  Samuel Fennec the publishers are seeking to make the script available for amateur productions. They haven't got agreement yet but it turns out they did get the authorisation to publish a book of the musical."

 

Brendan laughed and we looked at him. He explained what had tickled him.

"It's the book of the script of the musical of the play of the epic poem. I wonder what will be next? The comic of the book of the script of the musical of the play of the epic poem? Or the chocolate bar of the comic of the book of..."

 

"We get it," I said.

"I wouldn't mind a Sylvan River chocolate bar," he said.

"Brendan?" said Cecile. "Enough."

 

He smiled and nudged Orton.

"Chocolate? Is that possible?" said Hope.

"No, Hope," said Chris. "Anyway, the book has been published. And I'm down as one of the joint authors. I didn’t know anything about it until I got a letter from the Writers' Guild of Sylvania. Apparently the book is selling well and it came to their attention. They've reviewed it and want me to consider me becoming a member."

"That's marvellous!" said Cecile. "But you haven't responded yet?"

"No. Not yet. I'm still thinking."

"Why?" I said, not understanding his reticence. "What's involved? Will you be expected to do a lot of work that will be a burden?"

"No, nothing like that. Meetings aren't compulsory. There may be some social evenings. The occasional dinner..."

"Sounds good to me," said Charity, turning to look at Cecile. "All he needs to do is confirm his agreement by telling someone in the Mellowdene branch."

"I wonder why Grant Foxworth or any of the scriptwriters didn't let me know about my involvement in this book?" Chris mused.

"They can be a little lax in their communications," I said, "but they obviously value your contribution if they've made you joint author. As they should considering the extra work you put into it."

"I would have phoned them on Jackson's behalf had it been him," said Cecile. 

"Oh, I did," said Charity with a satisfied grin. "They apologised and happened to mention that the publishers will be contacting the bank to set up royalty payments."

"A professional author," I said, lightly mocking my friend. "Eminently qualified for the Writers' Guild."

A sheepish smile tugged at his mouth. "I suppose so. I'll get in touch with them. Funny how things turn out though."

"How do you mean?"

"I remember when you were first approached to provide music for the musical. If you hadn't persuaded the producers to bring me on board none of this would be happening."

"Aw. You're my best mate. And I wouldn't be a songwriter if it wasn't for you. How could I exclude you from that contract? Besides."

"Besides what?"

"You're quite a good writer."

Both of our families echoed the sentiment and then we lapsed into idle, comfortable chat. Later, a question from Hope Snow-Warren seemed worthy of Brendan.

"Can me and Susan go to these fancy dinners?"

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