Everything A Writer Needs

Jack Arthurs was struggling with writing his stories. He had been writing weird tales ever since he was a kid. Writing was the only thing he’d ever been interested in. It was also the only thing he had ever been told he was any good at. Over the years he’d had teachers rave over his stories, even requesting permission to hand out to other classes as examples of perfect story-telling. His family and friends had been enthralled by his tales when he was growing up. He’d heard of successful magicians who had perfected their craft by preforming all through their childhood, to their friends. Jack had been doing the writing equivalent. As far back as he could remember, Jack had been writing and had always dreamed of one day being a published author. To make a living from his writing was what he had always longed for.

Things hadn’t worked out as he’d wanted. Now, in his mid-twenties, he worked an office-job he hated, with colleagues that drove him crazy, and wrote in his spare time, He would upload his stories onto websites and enter competitions, but the praise and interest had waned over the years. These days nobody raved over his writing. He would email his tales over to all his family and friends, but they never responded.

In the last few months, he had struggled to even write his stories. He was struggling to stay motivated and focused. Ideas for stories did not come to his mind the way they used to. He would scribble down lines and paragraphs in his notebooks, but when he read it back, he could be filled with despair. He was losing the spark, his gift. The talent he had seemed to be leaving him.

His evenings, where they were once spent writing page after page in his spiral-bound notebooks, were now spent either staring at the dreaded blank page, or pacing up and down his small living room. Every time the phrase writer’s block came to him, he would shake his head. He couldn’t have the block. He was a writer. He had written before and he would write again.

As the months wore on, the struggle to write become all-consuming. He would toss and turn at night, the question of why he could no longer write going round and round his head. He wouldn’t object to sleeping less at night, if his mind was racing with story ideas and plot twists, but to be stressing all day about his writing, and then lie awake all night worrying, was just too much to take.

Should he give up? Was it time to admit defeat? He was at home one evening, flaked out on the sofa, flicking through the latest issue of a creative writing magazine. As well as articles, interviews and reviews, the magazine also had classified adverts. These advertisements were targeted at the aspiring author. There were adverts for writing courses and retreats, for vanity publishers for those writers who were willing to pay to see their work in print, and a selection of writing themed gift ideas. Jack flicked over the page, casting an eye down the glossy magazine. One advert caught his eye. The words seemed to speak directly to him.

The Creative Writing Toolbox has everything a writer needs. Our team of experts have put together a comprehensive collection that will motivate every writer. Become the author of your dreams for only £125.

Jack winced when he saw the price. The product sounded just amazing but could he justify spending that kind of money on something like that? Most writers, even those fortunate and gifted enough to be published, did not earn enough to give up the day-job. There was a phrase Jack used almost like a mantra. There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money either. Writers wrote for the passion, the love of the written word. Writers were inspired creatures, but right now, Jack was so deflated and completely uninspired. He felt so low and lethargic about his writing. Maybe this toolkit would help ignite the spark inside him. But, still, 125 quid was a lot of money.

He gave the advert one last glance. Maybe, just maybe. He would sleep on it. He couldn’t spend that kind of money without at least mulling it over.

A week later, Jack was still in the pit of writer’s block. He still wasn’t sleeping, was barely functioning. When he mentioned to his friends that he was struggling with his writing, they shrugged, telling him he should watch the football instead. A debate had then raged between his friends. Was your team getting relegated worse than writer’s block? Having never really understood the whole football thing, Jack didn’t get involved and headed to the bar to get another pint.

The next day at the office, he overheard two people in the office canteen discussing the latest thriller by a best-selling author. Jack felt a pang of longing. He wanted to be writing, to be a writer. He wanted to be working on stories of his own.

When he got home from work that evening, he tossed his coat on the sofa and reached for the magazine. He flicked through the pages with the intensity of a gambling fanatic reading the racing newspaper. The advertisement seemed to glow on the page. He read it once again, relishing each word. The Creative Writing Toolkit. Everything a writer needs. He had no choice. He had to have this.

Minutes later, credit card in one hand, tablet computer in the other, Jack ordered the toolkit and clicked on the check-out icon. He smiled and read the order confirmation email several times. He felt better already. He was a writer and he had just ordered a writing aid.

Every time the doubt or stress over his writing niggled at him, he would tell himself that he was doing something about his writer’s block. This writer’s toolkit would work wonders. He would be happy if his writing returned to how it was before this slump, but, by the sounds of it, this product would actually improve his writing. He might even have some success with his stories. Who knew, with a bit of help, he may get his tales in national magazines. He may even be on the cusp of being discovered.

On the rainy Tuesday evening, as he was opening his front door, after a busy day at work, his neighbour poked her head around the corner. She was in her fifties and knew the business of everybody on the street.

‘Hiya, love. You’ve had a parcel delivered.’

Jack managed a thank-you as she handed him the package. It was the size of a shoe box and wrapped in brown paper. This was it. His new start was right here, right now.

He went through to the kitchen and placed the box on the dining table. He handed it carefully, as though it was an ancient artefact that he was about to inspect. He would probably spend the evening busily writing away on a new project, having been inspired and motivated by the toolkit. He carefully peeled back the paper the dark brown cardboard box had the Creative Writing Toolkit stamped on the corner.

Grinning in delight, he gently lifted the lid, and peered inside. He stared and stared in confusion. The box was empty. There must be some mistake. It must have been a glitch, a warehouse error perhaps. Maybe the lads had forgotten to fill the box before it shipped out.

Sitting on his living room sofa, the empty carton beside him, Jack rang the contact number. Maybe they could get the correct package out that night.

A woman with a sing-song, high-pitched receptionist’s tone answered. Jack explained how he’d ordered the writing toolkit but had been sent an empty box.

‘I see.’ she said. ‘Have you got a pen and paper handy?’

Jack quickly grabbed his pen and notebook.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Then you have everything a writer needs.’

The line went dead.

By Chris Platt