The King came to Tea

Samantha McKenna

It was a dreary, dark evening as the light flickered in the kitchen. The mismatched cups and plates inherited from my grandmother were placed on either end of the thick oak table. After another frustrating day at my keyboard, I decided to indulge in vanilla cheesecake after the hastily prepared fish finger sandwiches. I seated Mother and poured the tea so we could enjoy our sweet treat together.

An unexpected knock at the door raised alarming curiosity. With trepidation, I answered the door and was shocked to see a strange yet somewhat familiar man at the door.

“Hi, I’m Stephen,” he said in his strong American twang.

“Can I help you, Stephen?”

“No – Barbara, isn’t it? No, I am here to help you. The Ballyvogel Writers Association has sent me to act as a guide and mentor.”

“Oh, well you better come in so.”

I wasn’t sure how I would explain this one to Mother. My worries were futile as the visitor completely took over, introduced himself to my mother as acclaimed novelist Stephen King, and explained that he was on a mission to assist me in crafting my writing skills.

“Ah, how wonderful,” he said, spotting the cheesecake on the table.

After setting an unfamiliar third place at the table, we each tucked into the O’Beirne Bakers award-winning cheesecake, removed from the packaging and presented as homemade.

After tea, with Mother safely settled in front of Nationwide, I gathered my collection of writing spanning the 18 months since I had joined the group. I watched as Stephen scoured through the pages. As his exasperation emerged, I regretted not refining my choices to a smaller collection.

“OK, Barbs, Rule Number 1. No clichés. Your works read like discarded lyrics from a badly written song. You’re not writing for idiots; let their imaginations bring the story to life, just give them the facts.”

I gulped.

“Rule Number 2. No adverbs. You’re telling me how to interpret every feeling; lovingly, carefully, excitedly…”

“OK, no more clichés, no more adverbs? Is there anything else, Stephen?”

“Well,now that you ask, yes there is.”

With that, he crumpled all the pages before him, walked to the corner of the kitchen, and stuffed them in the bin.

“They’re no good, Barbs, no good at all. You need to regroup and start all over again. Tell me the truth: why do you want to be a writer?”

I wanted to shout back, “Because I feel compelled to write,” but I knew he would see through that cliché.

Helping himself to more cheesecake allowed me time to consider his question.

“I had a teacher once who told me I was good at writing. I had never been good at anything else so I latched on to the idea that writing would be my thing.”

“That’s very honest,” he smiled.

“Maybe, but that’s not all. Writing gives me a sense of achievement. I just write and hope that somebody will like it.”

I noticed the tears stinging my cheeks and looked away embarrassed.

“Writing is about enriching your own life and hopefully enriching the lives of your readers in return. It can only come from your own truth,” Stephen said. “Tomorrow we will try again.”

I waited the next day for Stephen to return but he didn’t come.

Now I sit each day staring at my empty page, waiting for the words to return, but like Stephen, they never come back.

Samantha McKenna is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am in the Annebrook House Hotel.