Joe Martin stared at the lines on the blank sheet of paper. He twiddled his biro pen in nervous fingers. Starting a new writing project was always nerve-wracking. He had some ideas but which of these ideas would be best for his next work? His first novel had been published and quite well received. Martin had even appeared on local television discussing his debut novel. He had followed that with a tour of book shops around the North West. And now he had to write his second novel. A follow up book was as difficult as a band coming up with the notoriously elusive second album. Some bands only had one album in them. These bands peaked straight away with a ground-breaking debut album before disappearing, never to be seen again, apart from on repeats of Top of the Pops. A shiver went through him. What if he only had one book in him? They said that everyone had at least one book in them. What if he was one of those people with just one book in them? He stared at the lined paper on the desk. Unable to find any answers he lit a cigarette. As the thin trails of blue smoke drifted to the ceiling he tried to gather his thoughts. All kinds of half-formed ideas came to him. Maybe he should write a Western or perhaps Science Fiction, or perhaps a tale about time travel. No, he should write a gritty thriller set on the mean streets of Salford. He could even write a sequel to his original novel. Mind you, how would he follow on from the explosive finale to his crime caper about a warehouse robbery?

He took a long drag on his cigarette. The trouble was none of the ideas that popped into his head came to him in any form of completion. Things would come to him but would need so much work before even becoming anything closely resembling a story. There were fragments of stories, scenes, character names, sometimes even just a title. His notebook was full of half ideas with the letters WTS? written next to it. What’s the story? A very good question, he said out loud.

Still struggling, he did what good writers should never do, he pulled out his mobile phone and went on social media. Like a lot of authors and writers these days he had accounts on most types of social media. It was the ideal way to both promote yourself and what you were doing, but also a way of keeping in touch with other writers and seeing what they were upto. He scrolled through the messages, posts and comments. There were quotes from famous authors, and from classic works, and also shameless plugs for new releases and upcoming book tours. Joe took it all in and went on. He was looking for something, some spark to fire his imagination. The first book had been a work of passion. He had completed the novel while working nine-to-five for a shipping company. Writing then had been a way to escape the boorish drudgery of his job. He wouldn’t be concentrating on containers and cargo, his mind would be on characters, stories and plot twists.

But now that writing was his working life he found it a struggle. He went on reading posts from other writers. Then he spotted an advertisement. It stood out from all the other posts. The large friendly letters seemed to speak directly to him.

Are you a writer? Are you struggling with the dreaded writer’s block? Save yourself the agony of hours in front of that blank page. Click here to learn more.

Joe clicked on the link without a second thought. After an egg-timer span around on screen he was taken to the website. A video clip popped up in the middle of the screen. A man in his fifties was sitting at a typewriter, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up as if noticing the camera for the first time. He gave a wide grin.

‘Hello there. You’ve come here because you are struggling with your WIP.’

Joe smiled at the use of the literary jargon. WIP was your work in progress. They clearly knew their target audience. The man got to his feet and pointed to the camera.

‘Worry no more.’ he went on. ‘At Creation we are here to help. For a small monthly payment, your mind will be so full of the most delightful ideas. Your mind will be able to organise your time more productively. You will generate plots and characters that are almost as real as you and I. With Creation on your side, you will be the writer you always dreamed of. Success is just around the corner. It’s going to happen for you. Believe it. If you subscribe to our plan then it will happen for you. Get ready. Your dreams are about to come true.’

The man returned to the typewriter and tapped away furiously at the keys. The screen faded to black.

Intrigued, Joe read further down the page. It certainly did sound impressive. While being quite vague on the details, the results seemed fantastic. He gave a low whistle when he saw the monthly costs. It certainly wasn’t cheap. With that kind of money he could buy a second car or join one of those swanky city-centre gyms.

He shook his head. No. That wasn’t his style. He was a professional. He wasn’t an amateur. He had been writing all his life and been lucky enough to have his work published. He was living his literary dream. He was moderately successful. He was an author. He did not need any tricks or gimmicks. No, mate. That would be the equivalent of reading Novel Writing For Beginners. He had more dignity than that. Writing was a craft, an art. Words were poetry. They said that creative writing couldn’t be taught. Joe sensed there was something in that. He was an artist.

He spent the next three days desperately trying to write. Ideas would drift through his mind like clouds across a summer sky. He would rattle away a couple of pages but, suddenly, as though waking from a dream, he would re-read what he’d written only to discover it was rubbish. In disgust and despair, he would tear the pages to shreds.

Then, as dawn was breaking, unable to sleep, not wanting to eat, and craving nothing more than the rush that only putting one word after another would bring, he went back online. A second later, eyes struggling to focus from stress and fatigue he was back on the Creation website. It was a lot of money but he would manage. If it helped half as much as they said, then it would be worth it. Feeling both excited and guilty, he clicked on the flashing sign up now icon.

Having entered in his personal and payment details he retreated to bed. Hoping the torture would soon be over, despite feeling that he was selling out, he pulled the duvet over his head and fell asleep.

The knock at the door woke him up the following morning. He sat up, throwing the bedclothes to one side. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and headed downstairs.

The smiling man on his doorstep wore a navy blue uniform and matching cap. On the kerbside was a white van emblazoned with the Creation logo. He handed Joe a little white parcel. He held out a clipboard. Without reading the tiny print he scribbled on the line next to his printed name. The delivery man told him to ‘have a great day’ in an accent Joe couldn’t quite place, before returning to his van.

Joe went through to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he examined the small white parcel like an antiques expert studying their latest find. The top of the box had Creation 160 printed swirling lettering. He carefully opened the box and peered inside.

The box container a glossy instruction booklet and a white metal disc about the size of his thumbnail. As he drank a cup of tea he went through the instructions. It seemed quite straight-forward. When writing the user was to place the disc on their left temple. The disc would assist with the writing process. All the user had to do was look forward to the results. As with the website, the exact details of how it worked were still pretty vague.

There was still a part of him that felt like getting this kind of help was cheating. Mind you, who knew, some of the other authors may have used similar tools. He’d had doubts for years about some of the best-selling authors. There was simply no way they could produce so many books. One author had three novels published this year. Those guys were not just getting help, they must have had someone else doing the writing for them. So why shouldn’t he get help? This was writing not running. There were no drugs tests. He smiled at the thought. How many famous authors would fail a drugs test? A dozen names and faces immediately came to mind. But, no, surely getting help wasn’t cheating. And what about the millions of people around the world who completed creative writing courses? If one of those went on to make it big, could they be accused of cheating? Of course not.

He showered and dressed and made himself a cup of tea. He felt more positive about everything. He was a professional getting the help he needed. It was like a musician getting a new producer. He took a seat at his writing desk and placed his brew down and stared at the blank page. This time he felt more excited than apprehensive. He took a sip of hot tea. Tea was his thing. He’d heard of writers who drank coffee or beer while writing. He smiled at the thought of writing intoxicated. His handwriting was bad enough at the best of times, never mind when he was plastered. Even if what he was writing was of quality, the handwriting would be illegible.

He held the warm mug of tea in his hands for a moment. Another sip. Right, he sighed, let’s do this. He picked up his pen and hovered over the blank pages. The lines on the blank page always reminded him of an open road. The empty line was the unchartered road stretching away into the distance. Who knew where today’s adventures would take him?

He reached into the box and took out the Creation 160 chip. He handled it the way a gambler held his last pound coin. This was his last shot and he just hoped his horse would come in. He placed the chip on his left temple. The second it connected everything seemed to change. It was like wearing a pair of new glasses and switching on a desk top lamp. He lowered the pen to the page.

He looked down at the dozens of written pages on the desk in front of him. The words were in his scrawling handwriting but he had no recollection of writing a word. He took a sip of tea. He grimaced at the stone cold tea. He glanced at his watch. Two hours had passed by. He peeled the chip from the side of his head and placed it back in the box. He had lost two hours but had managed to write something for the first time in a long while.

He read through the pages. He laughed out loud. This stuff was so good. The writing had it all. It was gritty yet sentimental, humorous yet dark and brooding. And the characters seemed so real. They were not two-dimensional cardboard cut outs, they were so very real. It was the best writing he’d ever done. His normal process was to write long-hand, then edit while typing up. With this new work no editing would be needed. It was just flawless. It would need no redrafting, no tinkering. It was that rarest of creature, the perfect first draft. He turned over page after page, in his own hand, astonished by the work that he had no memory of writing. What a game-changer. Joe Martin was back. Of course he would tell nobody of his writing and why should he? It was nobody’s business. He was the author of what he was writing. Sure, he’d been helped, but then didn’t every artist get help in some way or another? They said that Alfred Hitchcock’s wife had had a massive input in his films. The Beatles had an amazing producer at Abbey Road. These things did not detract from their genius. As he sipped another cup of tea he typed the words up on his laptop computer. Even re-reading the words, he was taken aback by what he had produced. He grinned in delight as he tapped away at the computer keys.

While publishing his first novel Joe had grown quite close to a guy at the publishers. He and Craig would catch up now and again for a pint and a curry. They would talk about books they’d read, films they’d seen and laugh about what passed for modern music. Joe was eager to hear what Craig made of the pages he’d produced. He typed a short message saying the attached document was what he was currently working on.

The following morning his friend replied to his email. Craig enthused about his work in progress. Even the rough draft of his WIP was, in his opinion, the best writing he’d ever done. Joe looked from the email message to the small chip in his palm. However it worked, it seemed that the Creation 160 did the trick. And so, putting any doubts or artistic guilt out of his mind, he made a cup of tea, and sat down at his writing desk. With a swig of tea, he picked up his pen and gently pressed the chip against his temple.

The next thing Joe knew the pages of blank paper were now filled with writing. Almost three hours had passed. He had no memory of the time. He read through the pages. Regardless of how it was being done, the work was fantastic.

He spent every day the same way with his new writing process. He would blank out for hours every morning and afternoon only to be stunned by the prose filling the pages when he came round. It was as though he was being put to sleep. Maybe it was his subconscious mind coming up with the words. Gone was the writer’s block, gone was the torture and pain of writing. A famous writer once said that there was nothing to writing, all you had to do was sit down at the typewriter and bleed. It appeared that with his new writing aid, the device would do the bleeding for him.

The months went by. He would black out at his desk, come back hours later and marvel at the work he was producing. He had no memory of the story and would read the pages for the first time, as though written by somebody else. The writing was just fantastic. He would sent if off to Craig at the publishers. Apparently everyone at the publishing house was ‘super excited’ about his latest WIP and couldn’t wait for the finished product.

Craig would buzz off his work whenever they met up. As they dined on Indian food and drank pints of lager, he would ask Joe how he came up with this plot twist or that line of dialogue. Joe would be as vague as he could about it all. He had to agree, though, the work was fantastic. The writing was out of this world. The words leapt off the page. It was poetic, eloquent, moving and powerful.

One evening he arrived home from a night out with Craig close to tears. His friend had been raving over his work. He had used words like genius and masterpiece. Joe had smiled and nodded despite the knot in his stomach. He flopped onto the sofa with a sigh. The concern that had been at the back of his mind for a while suddenly came crashing down on top of him. The writing was marvellous. It was creative and lyrical. The plot twists were a delight to read. The characters were as real as a childhood friend. The tone and voice of the work was like his ten favourite authors all rolled into one.

But it wasn’t him. Despite being in his handwriting, the words were not his. He had been writing as long as he could remember. He knew he had a certain talent, a modest way with words. He was simply not capable of a work of this magnitude. He was a story-teller. His work read well enough, it had a beginning, middle and end. But he was no genius, he wasn’t a spokesperson for his generation, he was no bard.

The fact that he had no idea where the stories came from, couldn’t recall getting the basis of the story, that spoke volumes. It wasn’t him. Creation 160 wasn’t a writing aid, it was doing the writing for him. The words were not his. It was like reading a story written by somebody else.

He slumped forward, head in hands. What good was this tool if it took the writing away from him? It was like having a ghost writer or something. The joy of writing was in the agony. Writing was like running a marathon. It was the preparation, putting in the mileage and finally crossing the finish line with the work complete.

The device he had been using had helped with his productivity and word-count but had robbed him of something else.

He lit a cigarette and plonked himself down at his writing desk. The stack of papers seemed to taunt him. He read through the pages once more. The writing was beautiful. It was artistic. The turn of phrase was just poetry. The story was so wonderfully crafted. But an alarm bell rang somewhere deep inside him. This wasn’t him. They were not his words. As much as it pained him to admit it, he hadn’t written these pages. Reading the work was like reading something by another author. It was as though he’d picked up a random book off a shelf and started to read. It wasn’t re-reading something he had written. He didn’t have a clue where the idea for the story had come from. The topic, the tone and the phrasing just weren’t him. He took a long drag on his cigarette. He went through the work once more like a detective going over case-notes. There was only one verdict. He had not written as single word of what had been produced since signing up for the Creation programme.

He spent the next day walking the streets of town. He smoked cigarette after cigarette as he paced along. As the miles passed he watched the people going by. Each one of them had their own story. There were school kids causing chaos at the bus stop, a young couple, deep in lust, arms around each other, and a retired couple carrying ukuleles heading to a performance in a church hall. The ideas started to come to him. They popped up like points on a map. He rummaged in his pockets and found his trusty notepad and pen. He jotted down scenes, plot outlines, character details, working titles. In the grey-sky, Northern gloom he rediscovered his writing. He was back on form. Joe Martin was back.

He returned to his writing desk with a new hope and a burning inspiration. This was the start of something. A new chapter. He took a happy swig of hot tea, then tossed his previous work, the pages that were not him, in the waste-paper basket. He picked up his pen and for the first time in a long, long, while, he began to write.

Two days later e sent what he had produced so far to Craig at the publishers. This was his work. He explained that he’d been going through a few ‘artistic issues’ of late, but ‘normal service’ had been resumed. He ended by saying he looked forward to Craig’s feedback on his new work-in-progress. He sat back in his writing chair, smiling with satisfaction. He recalled a quote by a well-known author. Today was a good writing day, and on days like these, nothing else mattered.

Later that evening his mobile phone rang. Craig’s name flashed on the small screen.

‘Hey mate. How’s it going?’ Joe chirped.

‘Joe, what’s going on?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘What’s this stuff you’ve sent me?’

‘It’s my new project. It replaced what I was previously working on.’

‘Just hang on a minute. What you were working on was a masterpiece. It’s an instant classic. Give me more of that. It will make your career. You’ll be a legend.’

‘I’m sorry, Craig. I can’t. It’s not me. I’ve sent you what I’m currently working on.’

‘Joe, listen to me. The previous piece, it was pure gold. This new stuff? Well, I’m not sure we can publish it.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

‘I hate to play hard-ball. I’ve been in the industry a long time. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘And you won’t publish my new work once it’s complete?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s just not up to scratch. Give me more of the other stuff. It will make you a star and make us all a lot of money.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Just no. If you don’t want my new work then I suppose we’re done.’

‘Don’t do this.’

‘It’s the end of the road.’

Craig tried to speak but Joe spoke over him.

‘I have to go, Craig. I’ve got writing to do.’

With a smile on his face and a headful of ideas he went to put the kettle on.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom