Addicted

‘Right, I’m off.’ Debbie said.

She leaned in and kissed her husband on the cheek.

‘Have a good time.’ Steve said.

Debbie was off out for the afternoon with friends. There would be a bit of shopping, a spot of lunch, and a catch up. 

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ she asked as she shrugged into her coat.

‘Watching the match.’ he replied, pointing to the pundits on screen.

‘Enjoy.’ She replied, before heading out the door.

As soon as the car had pulled off the drive, Steve grabbed the remote control and flicked the television set off. He crossed the living room. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Debbie would not approve. He had this sordid little secret, but he couldn’t help himself. 

With both guilt and excitement running through him, he retrieved the notepad from the drawer. He curled up on the sofa, pen and paper in hand, and was soon wrapped in the cosy glow of his writing. When he was writing stories, it felt as though he was coming home after time away. His writing had the familiar, warm feeling of going back to his childhood home or something. 

He spent a wonderful afternoon, happily lost in a world of his own creation. The scenes and characters appeared before his eyes. When he was writing, it was as though he was a film director with an unlimited budget. He could conjure up whatever he wanted. When he was writing, he was gone, wandering across landscapes, along city streets, crossing ancient deserts, or stepping out on the surface of undiscovered planets. He lost track of time.

Before he knew it, the afternoon had passed by. The bay window was lit by sweeping headlights, as Debbie pulled onto the drive. 

‘The show’s over, folks.’ he said aloud, as his fictional characters faded away.

He flicked the television set back on, the sports commentary booming out, the pundits now debating a rejected penalty call. He hid his notepad under a cushion on the sofa, as Debbie walked into the living room. 

‘Hello, you. Did you have a good time?’ he asked.

As she was explaining about her afternoon, she flopped onto the sofa next to him. She was halfway through telling him about the incident in the coffee shop, when she stopped talking. There was something under the cushion. Steve felt sick, as Debbie reached under and pulled out the notepad. She waved the paper at him. 

‘Is this what I think it is?’ She asked, tears in her eyes.

Steve shrugged, there was nothing he could say. 

‘You’ve been writing again. You promised me you’d stop all this. You know you can’t handle it,.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He said. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

‘That’s the problem, love.’ Debbie said softly.

While Steve watched on with desperation in his eyes, she threw the notebook in the rubbish bin. 

He stared at the TV screen and tried to concentrate on the match getting under way. It just wasn’t the same. How could a sports game compete with the buzz of writing? When he was writing, he felt like a wizard with infinite magical powers. 

‘I’ll go to a meeting in the morning. There’s one in Eccles.’ Steve said. 

Debbie nodded. It was best to nip these things in the bud before the grip of writing once again took a firm hold of him.

Just after ten o’clock the next morning, Steve entered the hall. He made himself a cup of tea from the urn, in a white chipped mug. He joined the others in the circle of chairs, in the middle of the room. He felt shame and regret that once again he’d given in to the pull of his writing. When it was his turn, he took a deep breath and spoke.

‘Hi, my name is Steve, and I’m writer.’

The other addicts nodded and welcomed him warmly. They understood, they felt his pain, his agony. They knew the pull of the written word. It was an itch you never tired of scratching. 

It felt good to talk things over with people who were going through the same thing. One guy in the group had forgotten to pick his daughter up from school, after being completely lost in the final chapter of his novel. He had apologised to the teachers for his tardiness and explained to his wife that his masterpiece was almost complete. Of course, they didn’t understand. How could they? But, the people, with Steve in this room right now, they got it. They were going through their own issues too. Each had a similar story to tell, literally. One woman hadn’t returned to the office one afternoon, after deciding to work on a story she was writing. She hadn’t been able to stop until she had it all down on paper. How could she tear herself away from the story, to spend the afternoon in meetings? When the words were flowing, you just had to get it all down.

Steve stepped out of the meeting, feeling more positive about things. He had a writing problem, but with the right help and support, he would learn to control his urges. 

On the way back home, he stopped off at the small supermarket. He picked up milk, bread and a few other bits they needed, and headed for the counter. 

‘Can I have twenty Ringo’s, too, please?’ 

Steve pointed to the cigarettes behind the counter. The shopkeeper nodded and grabbed the pack of cigarettes. 

‘Anything else?’ the guy asked. 

Steve leaned in and spoke in a whisper.

‘Have you got any writing paper?’

By Chris Platt