What is a writer? Like a prize fighter. The poet owns it. Will never quit it.

But sometimes like the boxer Tiredness becomes her And there’s no more energy Inspiration is the enemy.

So to get some inspiration Like finding a new destination. The poet will use prompts. Like those found here, foot stomp. Tessa🦋

I suppose it’s common, biting your nails, but perhaps more uncommon biting your nails over a story. My ideas were flowing a day ago, but now, now the words just can’t seem to form. I’m stuck, how do I get these characters to work.. how do I get any of it to work?

Yesterday I had ideas, today I simply feel like they were all different stories lying about being one, the characters wouldn’t get along even if I tried, and I don’t think anyone has ever succeeded in making a multiple point of view story, I could be the first… maybe not. It feels like I’m stuck in a web and all of my things are also stuck around me - ok that was a strange comparison.

Think of story writing as a web, a big web of things and i’m the spider! .. yuck, ok think of that.. or try to without being sick, anyways, i’m a spider, I create the web, i’m responsible for weaving it all together, to make sure it balances, and instead of flies I catch your attention..!

Hopefully that made sense, right now the spider (me) has been unable to form any silk, the web is in separate pieces in other corners of the room as well, it’s sort of hopeless, I’m a terrible spider, I won’t be able to catch any flies like this.

Somehow the page feels like it’s judging me, this would be the sketch process for artists, I’m not sure what it’s called for writers, this is one of many books, many short stories that I’ve written out by hand, probably one of many that didn’t work out, I have a whole shelf of booklets to prove that. Being a creative is difficult, especially this part, the part where you try to put abstract thoughts on paper.

My eyes hurt from staring so long, there really isn’t anything I can do about it - anything other than start over and salvage what I can, this is the average life of a writer I suppose.

Tracey sat up in bed. She wasn’t sure what had woken her. She listened intently for a few minutes but couldn’t identify anything out of the ordinary. She was about to lay back down when a flicker of movement caught her eye. She looked to her window and saw a shadow slide across it. Tracey waited for any more activity. When none came, she groaned softly. Swinging her legs out of bed, she put on her bathrobe and slippers. Then she tiptoed out of her and her husband’s room and into the hall. She eased the door of her study open, wincing as it made a slight CREAK! She went into the room and lightly closed the door. She silently went over to her coffee machine and started a pot going. When it was ready she poured herself a mug and sat down to her desk to write. She opened a new document and stared at it for a second. Then she smiled as the words came to her. She quickly glanced at the clock. It was 1:27 in the morning. That didn’t deter her. She took a sip of coffee and began.

      I slipped across the yard, silently. I looked over my shoulder in time to see a car coming. I hurried and ran as quietly as I could to hide behind the massive bush that dominated my neighbors yard. 
      I wasn’t a second to soon. The car pulled up and Aaron, my neighbor, stepped out. He glanced around then hurried to his door. 

     Tracey looked up. Her husband had came into the room. She had been so engrossed in her writing, she hadn’t noticed. He smiled then gestured to the screen. 
      She turned the monitor so he could read. He did, his face very serious. He then laughed then patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll make you some more coffee,” he announced. 
      Tracey looked at her mug and realized it was empty. She laughed then said, “Thank you, Denton.”

She stared at the notification that had pinged onto the screen of her phone.

‘Don’t break your 15 day writing streak! Keep going!’

She stifled a yawn. She just wanted to lay her head on her pillow and drift to sleep. But she knew she should write. She’d made that commitment to herself, after all.

She opened up the writing app and looked at the writing prompt for today.”Write a story about a character writing a story. Maybe this character represents yourself and the struggles and joys you meet when trying to write your own work.”

As the early morning birds chirped outside her window, she started typing mindlessly. She was an author, after all. Not a published one… yet. But she’d decided that this was what she was. And because writers write, that’s what she must do too. It needed to become a habit. A knee-jerk reaction. It should feel strange to her to not write every day.

So she typed one word after another, unsure where her slightly unsettling piece of self-reflection was heading.

She paused, wondering what the hazy future would bring. It will probably all seem so straightforward in a few years’ time. So obvious. So clear.

But that’s the wonderful thing about hindsight, isn’t it? It always has 20/20.

But today? Now? She didn’t have that.

And while she tried her best to soldier on and ignore those doubts and fears biting away at the edges of her consciousness, she couldn’t ignore them.

How long? The last time - the only time she’d written a full novel, was in her mid-teens. She cracked a smile. She dreaded to think what she’d think now if she ever read it again. And where did she put it anyway? She remembered it was in a presentation folder with a bright blue plastic cover.

Anyway, that was by the by. What mattered was now.

And the question now was whether she should go all-in. Dare she?

She’d had a few wonderful pieces of feedback from other authors online: How they’d felt engrossed in her short stories, and how they’d loved her writing style.

‘You need to write!’ they said. And she smiled. It felt like balm for the soul, for they echoed the whispers of her own heart.

All roads led here - to this moment.

It was the moment where she would decide whether she would go all-in as a novelist. Or to take the safer route and hedge her bets. Hedging your bets sounds safer, doesn’t it? But is it, truly? Isn’t that what she’d done all her life? And yet she still found herself pondering this very dilemma.

And anyway, she’d never been good at multi-tasking. Hedging her bets meant she’d have to split her focus between something else and writing her novels. And if she chose that path, wouldn’t both end up suffering?

Her heart called for her to write the novels. To type like the wind and empty her heart of all the weird and wonderful worlds and adventures that she’d stored in there for so many years. All those characters whose stories had gone untold all that time. They were yearning to burst out - pleading to.

But it took courage. It took courage to decide to put her stake in the ground and say to the world, “I am an author. This is what I do. Because there are millions of characters and worlds inside my mind who are yearning to stake their claim on the page. And they give me no choice but to set them free.”

Should she do it? Could she do it?

Her mind screamed, “Risk!”

And yet, her heart whispered, “Yes.”

"I don't even know why I'm procrastinating. I like this story. I always choose a story I like, when I have to write something for class."

"Well, maybe that's just it." Elle poked at my forehead. "You have to write it. For a grade. And that's not something you like."

"I really don't."

"And it's easier to not do something than do it."

"It really is." I sighed. "I'm so looking forward to getting to choose what I read and write again. Without feeling guilty about it."

"No need to feel guilty."

"Feels like I'm wasting my time. Not doing what I'm supposed to be doing. But I'm not motivated."

"Well, then - the sooner you do what you're 'supposed' to be doing, the sooner you finish your degree, and the sooner you can do what you want to do. There's your motivation."

"I guess. It's not the best motivation."

"But it's what you have."

"Yeah."

Warm breath tingled the back of B's neck, and she knew they were there. A delicate swirl of steam drifted from her favourite cat mug, the tea, a charming distraction, and a plate of Custard Creams appeared next to her laptop.

She took one of the biscuits, ignoring the subtle subtext that they weren't there out of kindness, but as a bribe. "What do you want?" B huffed. The cursor winked unfavourably on the blank computer screen, the repetitive movement harmonising with the bothersome tick of the clock.

"Not written nothing yet?" They asked, and B's eye twitched. "It's been over two hours."

"If you must know,” she huffed, “I've been trying to decide on a name for my protagonist."

Crumbs replaced another biscuit on the plate. "Tell me then."

"Oh, well," B began; she'd hoped the sudden demand for the name would aid her in making a decision—but it hadn't. "I haven't chosen yet," she said. "It needs to fit, and nothing seems to fit. Do I want a two-syllable name or three? Do I want it to have a specific meaning or—"

"Why don't you just start writing, eh? Add the names after." Their words came out muffled, separated between a string of crunching munches. "We've done it before."

Wood groaned as B fidgeted in her chair. "I don't want to do that."

A sharp gasp cut against B's ears. "Don't you have a plan? I thought we usually map it out before, have it all,"—They pushed a finger into the side of B's head—"plotted out in that noggin?"

"Yes, I do, but—"

"Then write, damn it!"

"I can't, alright!" Heat sparked deep in B's chest and the start of tears burned behind her eyes. "The words, I...I can picture how I want the story to go, from the gentle sway of the trees to the crook in the character's eyebrow. I even have all the dialogue, you know." A hollow snort grumbled from her throat. "And I know you know how we adore writing dialogue."

"I do know that."

"But when I try and write descriptions, actions—"

"—like someone picking their nose."

"It's never as good as I picture; it's never as clear."

"So, what?" Breath tickled her cheek, and she smelt sweet vanilla. She grabbed another biscuit. "You give up?"

"Yes." B pushed the laptop away. It shuddered against the table, and a swell of tea sploshed over the side of her cup; she wiped it away with her sleeve. "I give up. I drop the pen. I unplug myself and the plug. I change the app. I—"

"Yeah, yeah, we get the idea." The laptop edged closer again. The cursor lept, and a soft tapping ticked in the air. On the screen, a word appeared: Hi! :-p "How about," They said, and B could practically hear the giddy grin in their tone, "I take over for a bit, eh?"

Between the clouded darkness, a thousand and one scenarios involving some kind of bodily fluid and terrible puns flashed through her mind, and B scrunched up her nose. "No. You'll only make it worse. All you do is write a lot about nothing and fart jokes."

"Pardon me, mes amies, but what I write is funny."

"What you write is dumb, and I hate it."

"No you don't." They cooed. A soft finger tickled the corner of her mouth, and she quickly forced a smile away.

"Fine. No, I don't. But what you write is easy, and I want to write something meaningful. Something with vivid scenery, beautiful characters and emotions with metaphors so well described that the reader can't help but gasp in awe and feel the deep truth of the words in their—"

"Genitals!"

"Hearts!" B shouted, and her face flushed. "Jeez, I was going to say hearts! What's wrong with you?"

“Come on,” They purred, and a prickle of goosebumps touched her skin. “take that pirate hat off for a moment and put on your nap cap." Hands interlinked, and a rhythmic pop of fingers cracked. "Take a wink or two, and let me pilot this ship."

"You don't pilot a ship, you sail it. A captain skippers their boat." B muttered.

"Whatever, we don't even like sailing or flying, and don't get me started on learning to drive...” They took a breath. “But anyhoops, please, I’ll be good. Maybe even get us out of this writing rut. Who knows, we could have a sudden spout of lizard muse. Be brave! Let's go all out and go weird, eh?”

B took a sip of her tea and let the not-so-milky beverage wash away the rising irritation of failure. If she couldn't do it, then she might as well let them have a go. She cared too much; she knew that—but what the hell, why not let them go all out and go weird? She might even enjoy a small zero-point-one per cent of it at the end.

She placed the cup back on the desk. “Do YOU have a story plan then?”

A sudden buzz of enthusiasm sparked through the room, and B felt the knot in her chest loosen. “Aye, aye! That I do,” They burst, “It involves a dashingly charming stowaway, an equally glamorous first mate, a grumpy cook and a lovely orange ship’s cat named Bread.” The laptop inched closer, and the cursor winked excitedly. “May I?”

Defeated, B bobbed her head, and the keyboard began to type away. Resting in the curve of her chair, B read the words aloud:

‘Sweat dripped down my forehead, and my body collapsed against the ship's walls. Darkness suffocated the small confines of the room, and the lower deck swayed, as did my head. A gurgle bubbled from my gut and my bowels... well, my bowels did something unforgivable and so stinkingly cruel...’

“What a load of rubbish,” B said, then a grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I love it!”

“Even if no one else will?”

With her whole HEART, she said, “Aye!”

THE WRITER - First Draft

‘I should have picked a different character name,’ Jawafra said.

‘Why?’ Fragglet asked. Three of them—a small writing group called The Type-Ohs—all worked on separate pieces in a cocktail lounge in Las Vegas [alt. Small cafe in Paris. Maybe jazz is playing in the background. Note: Research cafes in Paris]. ‘Raquel is a great name.’

‘Yeah. But it keeps trying to autocorrect Paiva. I’m going to have to double-check each instance for Peace or Padre or, if you can believe it, Panache.’

‘That’s why I named the main character in my last story John Smith,’ HM Violet said with a wink.

‘What’s your story about?’ Fragglet asked Jawafra.

‘Well, I’m not quite sure… I want to write about WRITING, you know? To really get inside the process, what it means to put yourself on the line, to dig deep, to bare your chest to the world and say, ‘look at me, see me, all of me, everything I am and am not; All I want to be and cannot!’

‘That sounds amazing. And what are you writing about, HM?’

‘Shrimp.’

They both stared.

‘But, I mean, it’s, you know, a Mantis Shrimp.’

They continue to stare.

‘What? I think they’re cool. They punch fast.’

Fragglet turns back to Jawafra. ‘Ok, so, your main character is a writer? That’s ambitious.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, when done right, stories about the craft can be amazing. The Shining. Adaptation. Bowfinger—‘

‘Bowfinger?’

‘IT HAD ITS MOMENTS! But, anyway, the alternative is that it can come across as too much inside baseball. What you intend to be a love letter to the craft can turn into nothing more than industry-specific schlock.’

‘They punch so fast the water around them boils.’

Jawafra and Fragglet pause, look at HM, then go back to their conversation.

[Consider having HM down an entire cocktail, frustrated by the group’s unwillingness to understand the epic nature of the mantis shrimp. Ooh, or maybe a shrimp cocktail.]

‘Ah, I see what you are saying. Yes, it could be too much like ‘look at poor me, all the things I have to go through for art.’ But, as you two know, it can actually feel like that.’

‘For sure.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So maybe I’ll…’

‘I’ll…’

“I’ll what?” Tom wondered. This was always the sticking point. He had been working on the first draft of ‘The Writer’ for months and always came back to that one moment, that key turning point in the plot: What DOES his main character want to say with the work? What themes matter the most? What message should be conveyed to the reader?

He took a sip of his tepid chai and stared out the window.

It seemed so simple to hoi polloi, this whole ‘noble hobby’ of storytelling. It was anything but. It was brutal, terrible, soul-punishing… at times. At other times, he mused, it was the most rewarding thing ever. It was the speaking into existence of entire worlds—of peoples and magic and drama and love. It was telling the story of a ghost with olive-pimento eyes, a laggard-crowned, Argus-eyed cousin, or the eco-friendly city of Verdigris. It could be the tackling of weighty, difficult topics like love and death and pain, or it could simply be an ode to an old Toyota Camry.

It was, in short, a hint of what it must be like to be The Creator.

He sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his Fabio-esq mane of sun-kissed hair, and thought about taking the DP1 Gulfstream to Hawaii for the weekend. A chance to clear his head.

He wondered, surveying his empire, what his legions of fans would think if he just opted to stop writing altogether. What would the ‘Nickelheads’ do then?

Nickelheads…

What a silly name for a group. But he loved it. ‘Heads’ of course being fans; ‘Nickle’ drawn from his last name: Nickelodeon. Tom N for short.

Freshly feeling motivated and determined at the reminder of his vast fan club, he poo-pooed the idea of leaving the ‘war zone’ in the heat of battle and opted, instead, to get back to work. The words weren’t going to write themselves.

At least, not until the next software update.

‘Nigella was bold, brave and beautiful.’

Nigella ripped the page free from the pad, brushing a tear aside before it could stain the next one.

‘Nigella was naive, ridiculous, and stupid, stupid, STUPID.’

Yes, Nigella sniffed, this was much closer to the truth.

‘Nigella was naive, ridiculous, and stupid, stupid, STUPID. She thought she knew everything about the world, about her father, and about herself, but the truth was-‘

She paused, fountain pen poised to strike paper. But strike it with what? These weren’t her words, they were Richard’s. Her brother had made it abundantly clear that she was not entertain any more thoughts of leaving London.

“You don’t know anything, petal,” he’d said over breakfast that morning, “you can’t leave the city, that’s a ridiculous idea.”

The memory stung like a fresh bruise. Nigella clenched the page in her fist, smearing the ink across her palm.

‘Nigella wasn’t being ridiculous when she told her brother she planned to leave. But she was being careless.’

Yes, Nigella smiled, this is more like it.

‘Nigella wasn’t being ridiculous when she told her brother she planned to leave. But she was being careless. She would still leave the city, because she was smart. She knew how to hide things from her brother.’

And with that, Nigella got to planning her escape.

The computer screen gazed blankly at me and I mirrored it. The screensaver, darkness. A chance to examine myself.

“Go on then,”

I say to the void siting behind curved glass.

“Why don’t you write for me,”

I joked to myself, kicking my feet up onto another chair. I grab the bag of walkers crisps I left in a draw underneath the desk, the corner of my eye spotting something peculiar. A strange shade of orange appeared. Almost pastel. I opened my roast chicken flavoured crisps and spun my head back to the screen. It was orange. I clicked the mouse, nothing. No commands on the keyboard seemed to make it respond. Usually I’d be upset about my computer crashing during my writing but, I had no focus and no content. So it was okay. I think.

I reach for the plugs socket and turn the plug off, orange, then back on, still orange, then off, orange. I couldn’t believe it, I sat in shock with crossed arms. What the hell could it be?

I'm going to write a book. It will be the best book. I have a ton of original and hilarious ideas. It'll definitely be a NYT bestseller. I can't wait to get started. I should make some coffee first. And I'll def need something to eat so I don't get hungry and distracted. Not sure how I'm going to be able to do anything if I know the sink is full of dishes. That reminds me, we are out of dish soap - better run to the store. I'll get some good writing snacks while I'm there. I've got my coffee, snacks...oh and I'll need some water in case I'm thirsty and jittery from coffee. Ehhh, this lighting could be a little better. I'll just unscrew one of these ceiling fan bulbs for ambiance...perfect. Oh! I'll grab a sweater just in case I get a chill. Okay, all settled in. Here we go... My computer is dead. And the charger is upstairs. Great. Guess it wasn't meant to be. I'll FOR SURE write tomorrow.