Writers Rejoice at “First Draught: Pints and Prose”

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

No, wait. That’s no good. I’m writing about writers here. I need to come up with something that will do them justice. But what? I catch the waiter’s eye and he ambles over.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“Un autre café, s’il vous plait.”

More caffeine was in order. The soft morning light had slipped quietly out the back door hours ago while I was sleeping. Now it was nearly noon. Squinting my bloodshot eyes into the bullying sun, I moved my chair into the shade of the umbrella.

It had been a long night down at in Fairfax. Everyone who was anyone in Marin’s literary world—and some who were no one—had showed up for the event. Dubbed “First Draught: Pints and Prose,” it was a reading series started by the Tuesday Night Writers, most of whom were in attendance.

Jon Wells read about war, horny dogs and canine sixth sense. Cyndi Cady told a story about badgers versus the mob. Chris Cole was there to read about Vonnegut, time and getting back to the one you love no matter how long it takes. There was Tanya Egan Gibson, expounding on jellyfish and ice-skating, and Tom Joyce, who read about mysterious women, vows of chastity and collisions.

A talented cast of characters. A fine night among fine, creative minds. But now the pressure was on me to inform the world about the group. How did they come to find each other? And what were they doing at Peri’s in Fairfax, California—so far from my table here at Le Dôme in Montparnasse?

Hey, it must be my lucky day! Here come Hemingway and Joyce. They’ll help me out.

“Ernie! Jim! Over here!”

The two men only reluctantly approached my table. I understood. Patch didn’t have much cachet in 1920s’ Paris. Nevertheless, I explained to them that I was having a bout of writer’s block trying to tell the tale of the Pints and Prose literary reading series. Could they possibly give me some ideas?

Hemingway took the bait.

“Back before Franco landed in Algeciras,” he said, “things were good. The Tuesday Night Writers had been students of Stephanie Moore, who taught classes at in Corte Madera. Moore inspired her students. Encouraged them. Challenged them. They came to love writing and they became better writers. Then Moore was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. There was nothing for it. Nothing. She died in 2006.”

“And that was the end of the story?” I asked.

“No, just the beginning of a new chapter,” he said. “The group continued to meet in Moore’s honor. Eventually they started reading out in public, and last year they put together the Pints & Prose series at Peri’s.”

Joyce, who had looked to be drifting off during the conversation, perked up at the mention of “pints.” Neither his mood nor his condition appeared favorable.

“Pint, Jimbo?” asked Hemingway.

“Yes!” he answered testily, before continuing to the topic at hand. “Yes the Tuesday Night Writers are yes! but oh No my head hurts the glare of the sun no! what’s that oh me feckin’ arse a gnat buzzing around my face no! I knew I shouldna gone no! to that piss up last night how fluthered was I? and no! now this bloody dosser wants me to do his oh shite no! where’s the bog? no! I say no! I won’t No!”

At which point he abruptly got up from the table and darted into the café.

“Don’t mind him,” said Hemingway.

“Look,” Ernest went on, “about your article. Just tell them that the Tuesday Night Writers are a fun, talented bunch with a passion for words. Many are published. Many have won awards. But they encourage anyone who shares their passion, published or not, to come down and join them at First Draught: Pints and Prose.

“The event takes place every couple of months at Peri’s Bar from 6 to 8 p.m. The next one is Tuesday, May 17, with special guest readers Marianne Rogoff (Sylvie’s Life; “12 Hours in Barcelona”) and Molly Giles (Iron Shoes; Creek Walk and Other Stories). You can kick back with a pint and hear some great writers read from their work, and anyone who wants to can get up and read during the open-mic segment. You really can’t go wrong!”

“Will you be there?” I asked hopefully.

“Doubtful,” he said. “I can’t go out at night anymore because my daughter wakes me up at the crack of dawn and I need my beauty sleep.”

“Don’t you have a son, too?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, “and when the daughter wakes up, the son also rises.”