The Write Place

Carl Parker was flaked out on the sofa, scribbling away in his note-book. His wife, Abbie, was curled up next to him, watching a reality TV show, while he worked on his latest short story. Later on they would have a cup of tea, and watching something together, but for the married couple, early evenings were for Abbie to catch up on her telly, and for Carl to get some writing done. 

‘Have you any ideas what to do with the money your uncle left you?’ Abbie asked, glancing away from the television screen. 

Carl tucked his pen in his note-book and closed it. 

‘I’ve been having a think about that, actually.’ He said.

Her husband’s tone made her turn the volume down on the TV, and turn to face him. 

‘Go on, Carl. I’m intrigued.’ she replied.

‘Well, obviously we’ll have a holiday, get away somewhere sunny for a couple of weeks.’ Carl started.

‘Sounds lovely.’

‘And then, I was thinking of building a writer’s shed in the garden.’ he said.

‘A shed just for writing in?’

‘It’s a thing. Some of the greats had these purpose-built sheds to write in.’

‘Really?’ 

‘Roald Dahl wrote his classic stories in his shed, in an arm-chair, with a wooden board on his lap. And Dylan Thomas, he had a shed over-looking the bay.’ Carl said.

‘I’m sure your uncle would have approved. He used to love reading your stories.’ Abbie said.

Six weeks later, a local firm finished work on the small shed, tucked away at the bottom of the garden. Carl had been too embarrassed to tell the workers the real reason he was having the shed constructed. He had shrugged and told them it was for, you know, tools and stuff. 

He and Abbie decked the completed hut out, making it homely, with carpet on the floor, a writing desk, a jar for his pens and a tray for all his papers. He treated himself to a leather-backed office chair. He perched on the chair, at the desk and rubbed his hands together in delight. 

‘I feel like Stephen King.’ he said.

‘It all looks so professional, love. You look like a real big-time writer.’ Abbie said.

‘Here’s hoping. This could be the start of something.’ he said.

Abbie reached into the pocket of her cardigan, and produced a thin black box.

‘I got you this.’ she said, handing him the box.

Carl swivelled in his new chair, to face her. He opened the box, and laughed in delight. He took the silver pen from the gift-box.

‘I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you.’ Carl said.

Carl spent the rest of the Sunday in his shed. He tinkered with a few stories he’d been meaning to write for a while, and jotted down a couple of ideas for poems. The writing wasn’t flowing as well as it sometimes did, but he was here, plugging away. As a famous writer once said, the water won’t flow if the tap is not turned on. Well, here he was, at the desk, in his brand-new writing shed. The tap to his creativity was turned on. He hoped the water would be gushing away soon.

The following evening Abbie was out with a group of work-friends. They were going into the city-centre for drinks followed by a meal at a new Indian restaurant. As she was putting her coat on, about to leave, she asked Carl what his plans for the evening were. He pointed in the direction of the garden.

‘I’m going to spend the evening out there, writing. I can’t wait.’ He beamed.

Abbie smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek before heading out to meet here friends. Carl made himself a cup of tea, and headed out back to the shed. He walked quickly down the path, excited to get stuck into his writing projects. 

He settled himself down in the shed, seated at the desk. He grabbed his pen and a fresh sheet of lined paper. His pen hovered over the page, as he gathered his thoughts. And then it happened. Or rather it didn’t happen.

The words, the flow, the magic, that spark of creativity. It didn’t happen. He started writing a sentence but the words seemed to fail him. Normally, when writing, the words formed sentences and then paragraphs, and as his hero Stephen King once said, then like Frankenstein’s monster on the slab, the creature moved and became alive. But right here and now, in his brand new location, purpose-built, the writing wasn’t working for him. 

He spent the next hour starting a couple stories before literally shelving the ideas. Finally he clicked his pen, tucked it in his note-book, and feeling as frustrated and annoyed as a marathon runner with a broken ankle on the first mile, turned and left his shed. 

A few hours later, Abbie returned home, full of energy and wanting to talk about her evening, all the events of the night out. Carl listened as closely as he could but at the back of his mind, the nagging concern was about his writing. Why wouldn’t the words flow? Why wouldn’t the stories come to him? Normally, even as he chatted with his wife, the ideas would pop up, random tangents based on their conversations, but now there was nothing. It was like whatever radio transmitter was in his head, had been switched off. He was no longer receiving. He just hoped that whatever was happening, it would pass and the words would flow once more. 

The next evening, he retreated to his writing shed, telling Abbie he’d be back in for a cup of tea and some TV later on. He walked down the garden to the shed, trying to ignore the doubts and stress, telling himself to relax. He took his seat at the desk, and tried not to see the writing as anything more than the hobby it was. 

He picked up the pen, and tried to compose the usual stories. And again the words wouldn’t not flow. He stuck it out for just over forty-five minutes before heading back into the house to join Abbie on the sofa.

‘How’s the writing going?’ She asked.

Abbie always had this habit of being able to tell what he was thinking. They had been married for a few years now, so their minds tended to work along the same lines. And she clearly knew he was stressed about the writing.

‘It’s not, basically.’ He said. ‘The writing just isn’t happening right now. I don’t know what the problem is.’ 

‘Maybe you just need to get used to the new setting. You’ve always written on the sofa, or perched up in bed. Now you have a proper place to write, perhaps you just need to get settled in the new surroundings.’ Abbie suggested. 

‘I hope you’re right, Abs. It just feels really strange not to be able to write.’ 

‘You’ll see. In a few days, a week, you’ll be laughing about how you had to get used to the shed.’

Carl nodded, fingers crossed.

Over the next few weeks, every time he headed to the shed to write, he would return feeling so frustrated. At night, he found himself lying awake in the dark bedroom, while Abbie slept beside him. When he closed his eyes, he could see the shed and the blank page before him. 

As the weeks went by, Carl’s writing really became a problem. Instead of going to his shed to write, he would pop down to check that his writing was still on the blink. 

The ideas just wouldn’t come and the more he thought and dwelled, things only got worse. He suddenly felt pressure about his writing. Could he cut it as a writer? Was he suffering from the dreaded writer’s block? Was that actually a real thing? He’d written hundreds of stories and poems over the years, why now, when he had arranged the perfect set-up, were the words literally failing him? Was he a writer after all? Hang on, that was just what they called imposter syndrome, wasn’t it?

What was happening? Was it the new location? He had deliberately and thoughtfully constructed a place dedicated to his writing, and now he couldn’t write. Maybe that was the problem. Was he like those boxers who, when they were on the up, switch trainers and move to some swanky gym in the city, with state-of-the-art equipment, and go on to lose their titles? Whatever spark, what gift, they had was suddenly lost and diluted by the transition. He shook his head. He repeated a writer’s mantra he’d discovered on social media a few years ago. You are a writer, you’ve always written, you’ve written before and you will write again. 

Early one Saturday morning the realisation came to him. It was the new shed. He just couldn’t write the same, the ideas wouldn’t come, the words wouldn’t flow. This shed had given him the feared writer’s block for the first time in his life. He sat up with a start. He knew what he had to do.

He dressed quickly in a t-shirt and jogging bottoms, and dashed out into the garden.

Minutes later he was smiling as he watched the flames consuming the wooden panels. As the shed burnt, smoke billowed, rising up into the air. He felt like he was watching a Viking burial or something. His new ambition and inspiration would rise from the ashes of the shed. It really did seem significant and deeply symbolic. Maybe after the shed was gone, he would actually return an even better writer than he had been before. 

The shed burned and collapsed on itself. The crunching sound was like music to his ears. Sometime later Abbie came running down the garden path, hurriedly tying her dressing gown. She pointed to the charred remains of the shed.

‘What happened?’ She asked.

‘It’s over. It wasn’t working. The shed was holding me back, suffocating me. I’ll be writing stories on the sofa from now on.’ He said, smiling for the first time in weeks. 

As he kicked with his toe at the bits of charred wood, something caught his eye. It was the pen Abbie had bought him. He reached and pulled the silver pen from the debris. The silver pen was in-tact. He wiped the ash from the pen with his sleeve. He couldn’t help thinking it was a sign, a symbol. 

‘I will still be writing with this pen, though. It feels like an omen or something.’ Carl said.

‘You won’t be writing anything until you’ve cleaned this mess up.’ Abbie replied, pointing to the blackened, burnt debris that had been the shed.

As he set about taking care of the mess, ideas came to him like wasps on a summer afternoon.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom