The Whole Wide Whirl Writer's Guild

The Whole Wide Whirl Writer’s Guild

The Whole Wide Whirl Writer’s Guild began when Libby Devlin placed an announcement on gather2gether dot com:

 “Are you like me? Do you dream of becoming an author of praiseworthy literature? If you would like to be part of a small group that meets to discuss our writing with that dream in mind, please sign on. I’m thinking of calling our group The Whole Wide Whirl Writer’s Guild, but once we Gather2Gether we can decide on a better name if you please.

Libby did not place any requisites to join. She presumed that all the respondents would be something like the way she described herself in the required brief bio: “Loves writing, but not revising, gardening, but not weeding, baking but not scouring − single, sensitive, serious and sentimental, but with a silly side too ­−loves lounging lazily on days off – adore my tabby cat and rescue Toy Cockapoodle.” 

A response came within hours. The first respondent came from a man who said he was single and thirty-nine years old. He had been writing off and on since he was a teen and had a work of fiction published in a well-known magazine just six months ago. His name was Harley Fyne. He ended by saying he knew that being part of a writing group would be helpful in his growth as a writer.

Libby used the website contact window to arrange a next-morning meeting with him at a nearby coffee shop.

Arriving 10 minutes early in a white blouse, one-button plaid jacket, and Annie Hall hat, she went to the counter and ordered a medium-sized cardamom tea and a luscious-looking cannoli that she could not resist. While the barista rang up the sale, she imagined breaking open its soft crusty surface, inhaling its spicy aroma, placing her tongue on its soft creamy center, and biting in. With her order complete, she paid with a ten. After dropping a quarter in the wait staff tip jar she put the change in her purse. Then, with her handbag dangling from her forearm and her laptop suspended from a shoulder strap, she gathered up the coffee and cannoli and returned to the sidewalk seating area where she set it all down on a table for two. With three minutes to spare before the 39-year-old bachelor was due, she took a sip of hot tea.

 Fifteen minutes later while sipping now cold tea and regretting the high-calorie Italian pastry, Libby watched a long-haired, bewhiskered man guide a gut-rumbling, chopper to the green zone curb near her table. He wore Nazi helmet headgear, had a beer gut, a graying handlebar mustache that covered his mouth, full-skin tattoos, and a thin, white tee shirt with lettering on the back that said, "If you can read this my ol' lady fell off.” 

Libby felt goosies in the nape of her neck when he spread his booted feet to balance the hog, cut the ear-splitting engine, lowered the kickstand, and strode up to her table. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed fellow diners at nearby tables impulsively clutching their phones.

“Are you Libby, by any chance?”

Recovering quickly from a transitory dizzy spell she managed to widen her lips into a this-can’t-be-happening smile. Every nerve of her body said, “Say no!” but she heard herself saying, “Why yes. You must be Harley Fyne.” 

“Yep. That’s me. The one un only.”

The scary man grinned and offered a greasy hand but gave up on a possible handshake when he perceived Libby’s uncontrolled recoil. He said, “I’ll be back at cha soon's I git me a cuppa mud ‘n a bear claw.” He walked away, pulled open the front door, and went inside trailing the odor of combusted petroleum in the air behind him.

Libby resisted the urge to take flight out of consideration for Mr. Fyne’s hurt feelings and possible retaliation.  

Harley came back out with coffee and a paper bag containing a flaky, almond croissant and took a seat across the table.

As he reached inside the paper bag he said, “Goddammit this piece-a-shit’s gonna be all crumbly crap before I get it out of the fuckin’ bag - fuckin’ bird feed for chrissake - I shoulda got sumpthin I could dunk. Sonofabitch!”

Libby’s urge to bolt the interview was close to irresistible, but even while fearing for her well-being her gracious, mannerly instincts dictated her actions.

She said, “Well, Harley, let’s forget about the bad stuff and talk about you.”

He was not at all what Libby expected as the co-founder of her embryonic writer’s group, but the more they talked the more they found out and on the positive side, Harley Fyne was a published author. His flash fiction piece The Biker and the Babysitter was featured in last summer’s issue of Motorpsycho, a MANZVU Publication. Harley showed her a plasticized replica of the 25-dollar full-rights check as proof that he was a real author, and Libby, sensing his pride, said, “I can only imagine how you felt the day you saw your work in print.”

Being polite, considerate, and sociable can soften prejudices, and the feelings of Harley and Libby warmed as their gossipy conversation went on. Libby realized that Harley, notwithstanding his roughhewn appearance and odd word choices, was just like her: a born writer who needed at least one reader to make him feel whole. After forty minutes of discussion, livened with humorous motorcycle gang anecdotes from Harley and funny scenes from Woody Allen movies from Libby, she said, “Harley, I think we got ourselves a guild.”

Harley smiled as infectiously as any man with five missing teeth can. Then he stood up and spread his arms wide offering a bear hug to seal the deal. When Libby froze in the metal chair, he dropped his arms resignedly and said, “OK, then Libby, you got my email. Let’s give ‘er a go.” 

As Libby Devlin watched Harley Fyne throw a leg over his hog saddle, pull on his Nazi helmet, spread a deafening roar of blue carbon monoxide across the al fresco dining area, and thunder away, she experienced that special delight that always comes with new beginnings.

The End