No, I won't be singing that George Michael tune for your listening pleasure.
I was planning to attend the next meeting of the local writers' group tonight at 5:30. The group that I single-handedly disbanded by daring to attend for the first time last month. I was going to give it another try, to see what might develop. If it turned out to be just me and the group leader's family again, I might need to reconsider my free membership.
I intended to take an Unsent Letters draft, just in case somebody asked if I brought anything along to share. I was leaning towards an open letter to The Butcher of Seville, or perhaps The Purveyor of Strange Bagfellows. Depending on which one I lavished the most spit-and-polish on before time to leave for the meeting.
But now that choice is moot. There will be no meeting. I received an email from the group leader's wife, telling me that they were unable to attend, and in addition, there was nobody to take on the leadership role for the evening. Eight members had plans to be elsewhere tonight.
Now I have even alienated the leader.
Seriously. Maybe these people just don't want to go back. Maybe they're afraid to tell the leadership folks that their needs are not being met. Maybe they're all on a two-month vacation. Maybe the same thing will happen at the August meeting.
If so, I'm going to call it quits. Something is fishy with The Greater Backroads Area Writers' Society.