**Author's note**
In 1982, Al Pacino starred in a movie titled Author! Author! This story has no relationship to that movie other than the title, which is the inspiration for the following submission.
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"Good evening class.
Your homework assignment was to write a scene of two people in a relationship, in conflict.
Each week, I will ask one writer to present their assignment to the class for group discussion and critique. Any volunteers?"
The speaker was Henry Thornton.
A local author, Henry had been unsuccessful after several years of attempting to have his numerous works published.
That was until recently. It wasn't a blockbuster, destined to make the best sellers list, but it was good enough to get him a guest spot on the local TV station "Breakfast Show'.
It also qualified him for this current gig, leading the writers' workshop at the Westside Community Centre every Tuesday evening from 7 to 9PM. This was week two of an eight week program.
When no one came forward, he checked his attendance sheet and spoke. "Maggie Tate, please make your presentation."
The full figured woman who rose, stood about 5'-8". She wore a conservative grey jacket with a matching three quarter length skirt. Her hair was confined in a bun and see wore wire rimmed bifocal glasses. She had a pleasant round face. Large sparkling brown eyes, eclipsed her other noticeable features. Maggie looked a bit like a 'school marm'.
I guessed her to be in her mid 50s.
When she began speaking, her voice was strong and clear.
Her characters were a defensive man and a aggressive annoyed woman. They were ending a year long relationship.
As she spoke, I scanned the attendees. The group consisted of five aspiring writers. Two men and three women.
Aside from myself, the other male was a distinguished looking gentleman. I knew from our introductory session the week before, he was a high school history teacher at the private academy, whose mandate was to churn out the future leaders of our society.
Winston Windom wore the stereotypical tweed jacket with worn elbow patches and sported a briar pipe that had probably not had smoldering tobacco in it in this decade.
The defiant young woman who sat beside me, wore distressed blue jeans and an ancient white tee shirt displaying a faded image of Che Guevara, the Argentine revolutionary. His death nearly 60 years before, predated her birth by four decades. I think her name was Missy or Misty and she attended community college.
Last was a thirty something housewife with three young children and a balding paunchy husband who worked as an accountant. I knew this because I had overheard a conversation she had with Maggie Tate the week before. I suspected DeeDee was here to escape her mundane home life, more than she had a passion to become a published author.
Maggie's backstory was unknown to me. I wondered if there was some connection between her and the history teacher.
Maggie Tate's scene was emotional and powerful. The characters were compelling and the dialogue was crisp. In the end, the philandering man was kicked to the curb and the woman pulled herself together and moved on. As Maggie concluded, DeeDee used a tissue to catch a tear that formed in the corner of one eye.
Everyone but Missy or Misty lauded Maggie Tate's composition.
Henry offered a few suggestions to tighten up the dialogue and asked what had been her inspiration. She simply replied, "Write what you know." No further explanation was forthcoming.
The session concluded a few minutes after nine. Someone suggested going for coffee at the shop next door. Henry Thornton and I passed.
I retrieved my crutches and hobbled to my car as my classmates departed in the opposite direction.
At the next class, the housewife was tapped to read her creation of that week's assignment. Although she presented it nervously, DeeDee's witty writing got several laughs and good reviews. Perhaps I had misjudged her.
The class ran long to about 9:15 and someone again suggested going for coffee.
Maggie spoke, "The coffee shop closes soon, how about meeting at the cocktail lounge on the corner?"
The suggestion was enthusiastically received by the others, and after some coaxing, I accepted as well.
I stood my crutches against the wall and sat beside the history professor. Maggie took the seat beside him on the opposite side. We had an enjoyable time and after one round of drinks, DeeDee stood to go. Misty or whoever, asked if she could get a ride to the tram station.
Winston departed after one more, and Maggie said, "I'll stay for one more if you will."
"Sure." I said, "Order me a rum and coke while I use the men's' room."
When I stood and turned to get my crutches I found that they had been tampered with. One had been readjusted to the shortest possible position, the other to it's maximum length.
Maggie laughed and ratted DeeDee out as the culprit responsible. "She said it would be fun to watch you hobble around in an aimless circle."
I was gaining a new appreciation for the beleaguered housewife.
"So what's the story with the crutches?"
"Construction accident, I am an iron worker. About six weeks ago I was on some high steel and the crane operator mishandled a heavy beam that I was preparing to connect. Fortunately my safety harness arrested my fall, but I suffered a deep laceration on my thigh. There was also severe damage to the ligaments in my knee. I have been in physical rehabilitation for the past month, but I am still a few weeks away from getting back on the job. What kind of work do you do?"
"Nothing nearly as exciting or dangerous, I'm afraid. Unless paper cuts qualify me for danger pay. I work in a bookstore."
"What led you to the writer's group?" I asked.
"I have always loved books and been an avid reader since childhood. Several years ago I started writing a novel. I completed the first draft, but was stymied, unable to complete it because of writer's block. I thought that taking a writing course might stimulate some new creativity. What about you?" Maggie queried.
I laughed. "My story is a little different. I have never been much of a reader, and I certainly never had any aspirations to be a writer. During recovery after my accident, I had a lot of free time to fill.
While surfing for distractions on my computer, I stumbled on a website with erotic stories. The first story I read was interesting and very titillating. The writer had woven sex into an interesting premise and had created compelling characters. I was hooked.
I read several other stories, but only a few provided the enjoyment I got from the first one. Was it too much to expect decent grammar, punctuation and spelling?
Something compelled me to try writing one myself. How hard could it be?
I ended up writing three and considered posting them to the site. In the end, I was never was courageous enough to hit the 'submit' prompt.
My interest in reading the stories continued and I found a few authors that I liked.
I revisited the stories I had written. In all honesty, they were shit. I was glad I had not sent them in. Turns out writing is hard.
I was surprised to discover that I liked writing. I thought maybe if I took a writer's course, I might be able to salvage them."
Maggie slid a napkin toward me and handed me a pen. "What was the site you liked?"
I wrote 'Literotica' and the name of the author of the story that had first hooked me.
Maggie flashed me a coy smile as she folded the napkin and tucked it into her jacket pocket when she stood to leave.
The after class drinks routine now seemed to be firmly established, and the usual group convened at our new watering hole. Similar to last week, Maggie and I were the stragglers as everyone else drifted off.
I had to admit that I was really starting to like Maggie. Noting that her style of dressing had become more casual, I now was seeing her as an attractive woman.
"Mindy sure seems infatuated by you. You should ask her out." Maggie said.
"Mindy?" I queried. Then the light went on. "I thought her name was Mitzi or something. No, I am afraid she is not my type."
"What's your type?"
"I like intelligent women...and definitely more mature than Ditzy."
"She could certainly use some growing up." Maggie seemed to agree.
"She still wouldn't make the cut. I'm attracted to women who are.....how should I say it?.....women with more life experience. You know, older."
"Oh, I think I get it. I read the stories you suggested on the erotic literature site. I noticed all of them were in the 'Mature' category. The characters always seemed to be an older woman and younger man. You were right though, very titillating."
