Welcome to Townhouse!
Welcome Townhouse Members – old and new!
We’ve had a little makeover. So, to help you get to grips with it all, here is a brief introduction to the new and improved Townhouse but, also me, Polly, your designated guardian!
Whether you’re a Free Member or a Premium Member (those who pay a monthly or yearly fee for extra features), Townhouse is your virtual writing community. It’s a place where we encourage you to discuss ideas, exchange feedback, ask questions and, most importantly, form lifelong friendships with those who share your passion.
To help you do just that, everyone will now be able to access Townhouse via their main Jericho Writers login here. This is because it is now fully integrated with the main dashboard; all members will now have one password and one login to access everything. For many of you, this is the account you will have created to purchase the following services: a membership; a free trial; a writing course; an editorial assessment; a one-to-one session or an event ticket. If you were formerly just a member on Townhouse, panic not! Your login has been transferred over. You’re now what we call a Free Member. All you need to do is reset your password. Any problems with this contact info@jerichowriters.com. Simples!
Once you’re logged in, you will be taken straight to your dashboard. Here you can fill in your profile and tell us a bit about yourself. We want to know everything, from your genre to your writing goals. This will help others get to know you and be able to support you on your writing journey.
On that note, are you ready to meet likeminded people? Of course you are! From your dashboard you can now post to the newsfeed, join groups and connect with members like you from across the world – either in the same genre, same writing stage or simply facing the same struggles. We really want to make this space as engaging and supportive as possible. That’s what Townhouse is all about.
To start a discussion yourself, simply type in the box in the dashboard and click ‘post’. You’ll see that notifications for replies, friend requests and likes will appear in the bottom of your screen and by this bell here . I myself will be very active on Townhouse, answering any and all queries Premium Members might have, and keeping a keen look out for any promising submissions. My official ‘office hours’ will be 1pm-4pm every Friday on the Premium Member Group.
If being a quiet observer is more your style though, you can also view popular forums, read recent discussions and stay up-to-date with other members, either through your dashboard or clicking ‘Townhouse’ at the top.
Townhouse and its features are completely free – we’ll never ask you to empty your purse for its use.
That being said, we do provide a Premium Membership service. So, if you see any upcoming events, groups or discussions you can’t access, this will be why. Premium Members can access online events, video courses, expert member advice and, our agent database, Agent Match, via the ‘My Jericho’ menu, just as they did before.
Every month, I will be providing Premium Members with exclusive live services, events and discussions based on their needs. You’ll recognise Premium Members on Townhouse by the crown icon next to their profile picture. Admin, like myself, with have a little red shield. You can read all about what is included in a Premium Membership here.
Lastly, while we welcome one and all, we do want this to be a rewarding and harmonious place for everyone. That of course means that a few rules apply. Read them here: Townhouse rules of conduct and Member FAQS.
In the meantime, happy chatting!
Polly x
Thanks, Polly. It all looks great.
“You’ll recognise Premium Members on Townhouse by the blue crown icon next to their profile picture.”
Hello Polly, I am a Premium Member, and I have a yellow crown icon, not a blue one. Does this matter?
Kate SF
ooh I too have a yellow crown
Sorry, I also have a yellow crown but am a premium member.
I’m glad it is not just me Anita!
It’s me too! I’m yellow but should be blue 🙂 Although I think I can still access everything I could before.
Hi all! Apologies, that was a typo on my part! Yellow crowns are the correct icon for Premium Members, panic not!! x
Yep mine is Gold too instead of blue. 🙂
Hi all! Apologies, that was a typo on my part! Yellow crowns are the correct icon for Premium Members, panic not!! x
Thank goodness, Polly. Happy with yellow.
Hey Polly & Team – excellent new townhouse 🙂 Where do I search for other members though so that I may ask them to be my friends? I cannot spot the ‘button’! 🙂
Hi Rachel, glad you’re enjoying it! If you go to ‘Townhouse’ in the top menu and select Members it will take you to this page https://www.jerichowriters.com/townhouse/members/ you can then search members there. Equally, you can join groups and forums to start chatting to people! I for one will always be up for a natter x
Ah – many thanks Polly 😉 appreciate that. Tell me then, what is the secret to keeping your agent relationships happy? Does it involve gifts of chocolates and wine (to the agents, I imagine, mostly)? 🙂
Thanks Polly, can I ask though, how do you get your friends back from the old site, I am now a sad old Billy no mates, apart from the lovely Elsie. How do you find them again? Is there a list anywhere you can click and re-connect please?
Hi Jane! Sadly, the team were not able to transfer your friends lists over. If you head to this page here though https://jerichowriters.com/townhouse/members/ you can search for members. If you remember the names of those you want to connect with, this will of course make things easier. The groups you belonged to will also still exist, so, it might worth popping something on there 🙂 x
Hi Polly thanks, it’s going to take me time to get my head around all the changes, thanks for your help.
I have asked this question a number of time before, with no response. So, I’m going to ask again. The genre I write in is absurd, science fiction humour. I have finished one novel and working on the second. I have also written a number of short humourous pieces along with some poetry and lyrics. Needless to say, the genre of absurd science fiction humour is not a popular genre with agents, in fact it doesn’t exist at all, so I’m looking to self-publish. Is there any one else out there who writes in a similar vein? If so, please respond. I feel like I’m invisible in a world of writers!
Hello Polly,
Many thanks for resolving my technical issues. When I opened JW in Chrome everything worked just fine. So, with one bound our hero is free – and no longer blocked!
I look forward to becoming properly involved in JW. I have been skulking in the literary undergrowth since I joined as a premium member in 2018.
Frank
Thank you, Polly. Been away for a bit, but I’m back!
I’m looking for Writing a Novel in 6 weeks. I’m registered and had Lesson One. Where do I get in?
Hi Polly
Could you tell me where to upload a few paragraphs of my novel or do I just upload them in the comments section?
Thanks for your help
Tony
Hi GUYS, Just posted the start of a story. (The Lonely Writer) To get some feedback before I take it any further.Alan
THE LONELY WRITER IN THE COFFE HOUSE
Imagine a writer sitting alone in a cosy corner of a minor, dimly lit coffee house. ( His makeshift office)The atmosphere is warm, with the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. He’s hunched over his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard, wholly absorbed in his work. A half-empty cup of coffee sits beside him, steam still rising gently. The wooden table in front of him is cluttered with notebooks, pens, and a few crumpled pieces of paper. Outside the window, the world goes unnoticed as he creates his own within the confines of this comforting space he affectionately calls his office.
The writer’s usual spot in the coffee house is not just a physical location but a place where he feels a deep sense of belonging. The ambient noise of low conversations and the occasional clatter of cups and saucers provide a comforting backdrop. The walls around him are adorned with vintage posters, some faded with age, and shelves lined with books, their spines worn from years of reading, adding to the bohemian charm of the place. The light overhead is soft and golden, casting a warm glow on his tired but determined face.
He takes a moment to pause, leaning back in his chair to sip his coffee, his eyes briefly wandering over the room. Like him, he sees familiar faces—regulars who find solace in this space. They are not just strangers, but a community of like-minded individuals. Some are students with textbooks spread out, others are artists sketching on their pads, and a few are just there to enjoy a quiet moment alone.
The barista Alice behind the counter knows his order by heart—a strong black coffee, no sugar—served in a ceramic mug slightly chipped from years of use. The writer often jokes that the mug has as much character as his protagonists, a playful nod to the quirks of his beloved writing space.
As he gazes out the window, the world outside feels distant, almost like a separate reality. The streets are busy, but time moves at a different pace here. It’s his sanctuary, where the worries of the outside world don’t penetrate. Here, in his makeshift office, he’s free to explore the depths of his imagination, weaving stories that might one day touch the lives of others.
He returns to his work, the clacking of keys resuming as his thoughts flow back into the narrative he’s crafting. The loneliness he sometimes feels is a familiar companion, a silent partner in his creative process. It’s not a negative feeling but a space for his thoughts to breathe and his ideas to take shape. It fuels his creativity, driving him to pour his emotions into the words on the screen.
With its familiar sounds and smells, this coffee house is more than just a place to write. It’s where his thoughts are most apparent, his stories come to life, and he finds a profound sense of purpose in solitude, a reminder to the readers of the power of a dedicated writing space.
The coffee house empties as the evening wears on, but the writer remains. The hum of conversations dwindles, replaced by the soft rustling of Elimla the barista who is cleaning up behind the counter. The writer likes this time best—the in-between moments when the world slows down, and it feels like he’s the last person awake, the only one still caught in the glow of inspiration.
The lighting dims as the night deepens, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Outside, streetlights flicker on, their yellowish glow seeping through the window and mixing with the warm light inside. The writer’s fingers pause over the keyboard as he watches raindrops begin to splatter against the glass, creating patterns that seem almost poetic in their randomness.
His mind wanders for a moment, drawn to the memories of why he started writing in the first place. It wasn’t for fame or recognition, but for moments like this—moments where time feels suspended, where he can lose himself in the world he’s creating. It’s a world where he’s never truly alone, where his characters keep him company and where his thoughts find a voice.
He thinks about the story he’s working on, a tale of love and loss, searching for something that seems just out of reach. It’s a story close to his heart, inspired by his own experiences, but he disguises it behind the veil of fiction. As he delves deeper into the narrative, he finds himself reliving the emotions he once felt, the joy of love and the agony of loss. There’s a kind of therapy in the process, a way to explore the depths of his emotions without ever speaking them aloud.
A few more late-night patrons trickle in, their presence barely registering with him. A couple huddles together in a booth, sharing a quiet conversation. An older man with a newspaper and a steaming mug of tea sits by the window, occasionally glancing outside as if waiting for someone. The writer recognises the same kind of solitude in these people, a shared silence that binds them together in this small, intimate space.
Alice eventually approaches, offering a warm smile as she refills his cup without asking. She’d seen him here so many times, sitting in the same spot, that she’d come to regard him as a fixture of the place, just like the old clock on the wall that ticks softly in the background.
“Another late night?” she asks, her voice gentle, almost a whisper, to not disturb his thoughts. Her eyes, filled with a mix of concern and understanding, meet his, and for a moment, he feels a sense of shared understanding.
He nods, returning her smile. “Something like that.”
Knowing he prefers the quiet, she doesn’t linger, but her brief interaction brings a small comfort. These small, human connections remind him he’s not entirely isolated in his world. He watches her walk away, then turns back to his screen, the glow of his laptop now the only light source at his table.
The hours slip unnoticed as he writes, his focus so intense that he barely registers the closing time. Eventually, Alice gently reminds him that they’re about to close. He saves his work, shuts down his laptop, and begins to gather his things, the spell of the night’s creativity slowly dissipating.
As he steps outside, the cool night air greets him, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement. The streets are nearly deserted, the city hushed under the blanket of darkness. He pulls up the collar of his coat, shielding himself against the chill, and starts the walk back to his tiny apartment a few blocks away.
The walk home is always reflective when the writer lets his mind decompress. The story he’s been working on lingers in his thoughts, the characters still whispering to him as he walks through the quiet streets. He thinks about where he’ll pick up tomorrow, how the narrative will unfold, and what his protagonist will do next. These thoughts accompany him like old friends, keeping the loneliness at bay.
When he reaches his apartment, the familiar creak of the front door welcomes him back. The space is modest, cluttered with books and notes scattered across every surface, but it’s his. He sets his things down and goes to the small desk by the window, where he’ll often jot down a few last ideas before bed.
Outside, the rain continues to fall, a soothing rhythm against the glass. He sits momentarily, gazing at the city, thinking about his chosen life. It’s not always easy, and the loneliness can be profound, but in these quiet moments—whether in the coffee house or here at home—he feels most alive.
For the writer, solitude is a necessary companion, a space where his creativity can flourish. And though the world outside may never fully understand his need for this quiet life, he knows that it’s here, in the stillness of the night, that he finds his true self. The loneliness, at times, can be overwhelming, but it’s in these moments that he turns to his writing, his characters, and the small human connections he makes, to remind himself that he’s not entirely isolated.
The next day, the writer returns to his favorite coffee house, but something is different. As he approaches his usual spot, he notices that someone else is sitting there—a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a sharp suit, with a briefcase and an air of impatience. The writer hesitates, unsure what to do. This spot has always been his, an unspoken understanding between him and the regulars, but today, it seems the world has shifted slightly off its axis.
He considers finding another table, but they’re all occupied. The coffee house is unusually crowded, filled with unfamiliar faces. A wave of irritation washes over him. This place, his sanctuary, feels like it’s been invaded. His frustration is palpable, and the audience can’t help but feel for him in this moment of disruption.
Reluctantly, he sits at the counter near the window, a spot he’s never liked because it’s too exposed. From here, he can see everyone, and everyone can see him. The barista gives him a sympathetic glance as she hands him his usual coffee, but it does little to ease his frustration.
He opens his laptop, trying to focus on his writing, but the words don’t come as quickly today. His thoughts are scattered, disrupted by the noise of the coffee house, which seems louder than usual. The man in his spot is talking on his phone, his voice low but persistent, cutting through the writer’s concentration like a dull knife.
Every time the writer glances over, he feels a pang of annoyance. He doesn’t know why this small change bothers him so much, but it does. It’s not just about the seat; it’s about the routine, the comfort of familiarity that allows his mind to sink into the world of his story. Without it, he feels adrift, unable to connect with the characters he’s created.
Minutes pass, then an hour, and still, the man doesn’t leave. The writer’s irritation festers, growing into something darker—a sense of helplessness. He realises it’s not just this moment troubling him but something deeper, something gnawing at him for weeks. His latest story isn’t going the way he’d hoped. The words feel forced, the plot thin, and he’s beginning to doubt whether he can finish it at all. The audience can’t help but feel sympathetic towards the writer’s struggle and his growing sense of helplessness.
The loneliness he usually embraces now feels suffocating. The coffee house, once a refuge, has become a reminder of how isolated he truly is. He watches the man in his seat, envying his ease and his confidence, and wonders if he’s chosen the wrong life. What would it be like to have a regular job, with colleagues to talk to and a clear path forward, instead of this endless struggle with words? The audience can feel the writer’s envy and his longing for a different, less solitary life.
The thoughts unsettle him, stirring up a conflict he’s tried to ignore for years. Writing has always been his dream, but lately, it’s felt more like a burden. The loneliness, uncertainty, and constant doubt weigh on him, and he starts questioning whether it’s worth it.
As the hours drag on, he becomes increasingly restless. He decides to leave, abandoning his work for the day. He packs up his things, throws on his coat, and steps outside, the cold air hitting him like a slap. He starts walking, not sure where he’s going, but needing to move to escape the confines of his mind.
He ends up in a park a few blocks away, where he sits on a bench, watching the world pass by. The doubt still lingers, gnawing at him. He’s always believed in the power of solitude, but now it feels like a brick-by-brick prison he’s built around himself.
As he sits there, lost in thought, he notices a group of children playing nearby, their laughter cutting through his gloom. He watches them, envying their freedom, their simple joy. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine a different life—one where he’s not a writer and’s free from the constant pressure to create- to be something more.
But as he considers this, a familiar tug pulls at him, reminding him why he started writing in the first place. It wasn’t just about telling stories but finding a way to connect and make sense of the world and his place in it. Writing has always been his way of reaching out, even if it often feels like no one is there to reach back.
The conflict within him remains unresolved, but as he watches the children play, he feels a tiny spark of clarity. Maybe he’s been too hard on himself, too focused on the result and not enough on the process. He’s lost sight of the joy that writing once brought him, buried under the weight of expectations—both his own and those he imagines others have of him.
He takes a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and returns to the coffee house.
As he pushes open the coffee house’s door, warm air rushes to greet him, carrying the familiar scent of roasted beans and the low hum of conversation. He takes a moment to shake off the chill before going to his usual spot by the window. The small and slightly worn table welcomes him back like an old friend.
He sits down, placing his worn notebook on the table. The blank page stares back at him, an unspoken challenge that doesn’t feel as daunting this time. There’s a strange comfort in the emptiness, a promise that anything could happen once he puts pen to paper. The joy of writing, like a warm embrace, fills the room.
His gaze drifts to the world outside the window—the children’s laughter still echoing faintly, the rhythm of life continuing despite the cold. He realises that in his pursuit of perfection, he’s forgotten the simple pleasure of letting his thoughts flow freely without the burden of judgment.
He picks up his pen, its weight familiar in his hand, and begins to write. The words come slowly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. But as the minutes pass, they start to flow more easily, taking on their own life. He writes about the children, their innocent joy in the snow, and the older man he saw earlier, whose eyes held a lifetime of untold stories. He writes about the coffee house and how it feels like a haven amidst the world’s chaos.
And as he writes, something shifts within him. The loneliness that had seemed so overwhelming now feels less like a burden and more like a companion, something that drives him to create rather than something that holds him back. He’s reminded that writing is as much about the journey as the destination—a way to explore, question, and connect, even if the connection is only with himself.
Time slips unnoticed, the world outside growing darker as the afternoon fades into evening. The coffee house begins to empty, but he remains, the words still pouring out of him. It’s not perfect—far from it—but it’s real, and that’s enough for now.
Eventually, he stops, his hand cramping slightly from the hours spent writing. He looks down at the pages filled with his messy, looping script, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He’s not sure if another soul will ever read any of this, but that doesn’t matter as much anymore. For the first time in a long while, he feels a profound sense of peace and satisfaction, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
The coffee shop is almost empty now, the barista wiping down the counter and chairs being stacked on tables. He gathers his things, tucking the notebook under his arm, and heads for the door. As he enters the night, the cold air wraps around him again, but this time, it feels invigorating, like a splash of cold water on a hot day, rather than harsh.
He pauses on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. The stars are beginning to peek through the inky darkness, each a tiny point of light in the vastness. He feels a little like one of those stars—small, perhaps insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but still burning brightly, still adding something to the night.
And maybe, he thinks as he starts to walk home, that’s all he’s ever needed. Not to shine the brightest but to shine. To write not for approval or recognition but because it’s what he was always meant to do.
As he walks, the familiar tug inside him becomes a little stronger, no longer a reminder of what he lacks but of what he has always possessed—the love of the craft, the joy in the process, and the understanding that in writing, he has already found the connection he was seeking.
And so, with a heart that feels a little less lonely, he heads home, ready to keep writing, exploring, and reaching out—if only for himself.
to be continued…