Writers Block

t was an overcast day in November. The sky was blanketed in  low level clouds, and the trees that had once been green with life during the summer months, stood bare and lifeless. At least nature renewed itself, in contrast I was stuck.  Sat at my desk in my small study with a cup of cold coffee, attempting to write the third book in my award winning Detective Mackay trilogy. I wondered, much like my readers had asked of my protagonist when I had written a particularly suspenseful cliff hanger. How would I ever get out of  this predicament?  I had a serious case of writers’ block which I couldn't afford. My publisher,  Yellow Canary, was growing increasingly impatient and angry about my promises being broken, and deadlines being missed. I had tried everything, watching YouTube videos that claimed to   help the struggling author and reading numerous  books that proudly proclaimed on their shiny covers to find your inner creative in six weeks or your money back. But mine, it   seemed, did not want to be found.   

My morose thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, it opened and in walked Maya  Bishop, my flatmate. She is tall and slim with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes, she's wearing a plain red top, blue jeans and black trainers. 

“Good morning Rob”, 

“Morning Maya ” I say, spinning round in my chair to face her. 

“I was on my way to work at the television station when I saw the post delivery and thought I would save you a trip by bringing it to you. I know the mornings are your creative time,” she puts the phrase creative time in air quotes, which usually I would find funny, but today irritated me.

“Used to be” I answered bitterly, 

“not going well?”, 

 “no”, I admitted.  She walked over to me  and pressed some keys on the keyboard,  letters and numbers appear and disappear as Maya  typed and deleted them, 

“it's not the keyboard” she announced sadly “don't worry you will figure it out and when you do I am sure it is going to be an engrossing read and people are going to love it, anyway, have a good day, i've got to go, i’m late”.  With those parting words, she put the post down on my desk before rushing out the room and closing the door softly behind her. 

I turned back to the computer with a sigh. I wanted so badly  to share her optimism, that I would somehow be able to think of a word or sentence to get me started but there was nothing. My fingers remained motionless on the keyboard. 

Finally, in frustration I gave up and turned my attention to the mail, mostly junk. In amongst the clothing catalogues and pizza menus was a package addressed to me, it was a small square box, wrapped in brown paper with no return address, just a PO Box number and a name, Alex Wilson. The package contained a wooden block stained black with a hole drilled in the top, into which a silver padlock had been inserted, and on the sides of the block in gold letters were written the words “unlock your creativity”. I stared at it perplexed for a while  and tried to make sense of the mysterious package, but when I couldn't I put the block in my desk top drawer. If I thought this action would allow me to forget the receipt of the mysterious package and the name Alex Wilson, I was mistaken.

Over the next few days and weeks, I received almost identical packages in the mail with one noticeable difference,their size which steadily increased with each new arrival. Initially they were easy to hide and keep secret from Maya  who would no doubt ask questions I did not have the answers to. 

This worked for a while, life carried on, my writer's block remained and Maya went to work oblivious. I had never lied to her before but if it kept her in the dark it would mean that I could deal with one problem at the time. Yellow Canary’s faith in me that I would eventually turn in a manuscript would only last so long. But soon the packages became so large and their number so numerous I began stacking them up in the corners of my study, it wasn't long before Maya noticed 

“Rob, what are all these?” she said, gazing around the room. There were so many it was getting difficult to move. I opened my desk drawer and took out the first block I received, squeezed my way expertly past the boxes, reaching Maya, 

“this” I say and put it into Maya's hand. She turns the block over several times and then enquired with a puzzled expression on her face “what is it?” 

“I don't know” I replied 

“where do they come from?” 

“I've been receiving them for weeks” 

“I see, and why have you kept them in here?” 

“So you wouldn't see them”, 

“why what difference would that have made?”

 “I know you Maya, if you had seen them you would want to solve the mystery of where they have come from” 

“you've got that right buddy, you mean you are not even a little bit curious?”,  

“nope”, 

“why not”?,

 “because I need to focus on the book to get it written, I can't be distracted and I do not intend being dropped by my publisher” 

“How exactly are you going to do that? Are you going to look at that screen until the words magically appear?” 

“Yes, don't you see Maya, I have to do something its been my dream job, it is all I wanted to do since leaving college”

Maya manoeuvres herself around the boxes “you'll get it back I promise, it will come, you just need to give it time” she said reassuringly.  

“Come on, take a break, watch a film with me.” 

Reluctantly, I turn my computer off and follow her out the room. However,  the break did nothing to jump start my creativity. 

The next day, the moment I had been dreading arrived, I had a phone call from Yellow Canary which informed me that they had run out of patience and they terminated my contract. I begged and pleaded but they wouldn't change their mind, not this time. I felt broken, the job I had always wanted to do had been taken away from me. I felt hollow inside, but even if I was still contracted it would not have mattered, my study was now so full I could not open the door and the packages would not stop coming. 

In mid December the packages are now in every room of my house, the latest one is huge, I struggle to carry it into the living room, up until now, the only room I have managed to keep free of packages, but not anymore. It stands in the corner. I do not open it, as I haven't done for a while. There's no point I am over familiar with their contents, even Maya's initial optimism at solving the mystery has evaporated. We have no leads to go on, we have resigned ourselves to cohabiting with the strange objects until one night when a clue unexpectedly presents itself.  

Maya and I are watching a film together which has become a nightly ritual since I lost the motivation to work. However,this particular evening Maya is more engrossed in the film  than I am, preferring to watch funny videos on my phone rather than the romantic comedy Maya has selected. 

Suddenly Maya cries out in excitement,”Rob you've  got to see this” 

“Oh what is it now Maya?”, 

“ Have you seen an advertisement for a new film or television program you want to watch?” I ask sarcastically 

“no look!”

I look up and see Maya pointing at the television, on screen, is a slowly rotating black block with a padlock through it, while a voiceover says the words “unlock your creativity, then it fades out and the film resumes. My mouth falls open in disbelief.   

“Maya, rewind that please” I say.

She grabs the remote and presses the button furiously. 

“I can't, it's not allowing me too”.  We watch the next part of the film in anticipation and when the adverts come back on, Maya gets a pen and paper and writes furiously. I look over her shoulder at the paper, I can only make out one sentence, The Penpals Writers retreat, the rest is illegible.  Finally, I might get some answers.

The next morning, after a restless night, I get up early, dress in jeans and a white woolen pullover, and go downstairs to make breakfast. To my surprise Maya is already in the kitchen, still in her pyjamas, sitting among the boxes at the round wooden table typing on her laptop. When she sees me she smiles,

 “The Penpal Writers Retreat is only an hour away” Maya says, already getting up from her chair squeezing past the boxes, “I will get changed and meet you at the car”. After my breakfast, I head to the car. Maya is appropriately dressed in a green knitted jumper, black trousers, red puffer jacket, and a dark blue beanie.  After putting the address into her car’s built-in sat nav, we set off in silence wondering what kind of place the Penpal Writers Retreat is.

Due to the secluded location of the Retreat we have to park the car alongside others. The Retreat is some distance away and we hike up a steep, uneven, narrow track, made more treacherous by the snow. Our boots skid several times but we somehow manage to keep our footing. It is deathly quiet, the trees that surround us muffle the sounds of the distant traffic, the only things we can see and hear with any clarity is our breath in the cold December air and the crunch of snow underfoot. We eventually reach the top of the track and see the Retreat spread out in front of us. 

It is a large plot of land on which stands numerous pod homes, all made of wood and other recyclable materials. People stare out of small windows watching us pass as we head towards a large structure with a wooden sign with black lettering above the door that reads “Welcome Centre”. The logo, by the words, makes us stop in our tracks: a black wooden box with a silver padlock, and the familiar words “unlock your creativity”.

 “We are definitely in the right place”, Maya whispers.

A short blonde woman carrying a clipboard and large canvas bag steps in front of us, she is dressed in a dark blue jacket and matching skirt and knee boots, “welcome to Pen Pals Retreat” she says cheerfully with an Australian twang to her voice,

 “I am Carol, your retreat advisor, if you need anything during your stay don't hesitate to come and find me”.

 “Thank you Carol, this is Maya Bishop and I am Rob Western”.

“Nice to meet you both, now let's get you checked in”, she says before looking down at her clipboard then back at us, 

“these are your keys”, she hands us two silver keys attached to blue keyrings,

 “Mr Western you are in pod 17”, 

 “Ms Bishop you are in pod 20, unfortunately we could not get you anything closer together, it is a busy period for us here a lot of creatives want to be put back on the right path Mr. Wilson has helped a lot of people, you will meet him tomorrow at orientation which takes place in the building behind me at 8 am. Please leave your phones and any electronic devices in this bag,  I will keep them safe and give them back to you at the end of the week”.  

“Until tomorrow relax and enjoy your stay with us,” with those words she hurries off to welcome some more new arrivals. “I will see you later” as we head towards our respective pods. 

When I put the key in the lock and open the door with a click, I am taken aback. For such a small space, the room is beautifully furnished with redwood flooring and rustic walls which gives the three room pod home a warm and inviting feel, it is comprised of a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen cupboards are fully stocked with non-perishable food items. There are even some notebooks, pens and a map of the site. On the bed side table there is a menu for the on-site restaurant, I must remember to try that in the morning.

As the sun sets, I worry that I am not going to be able to sleep in this strange environment, but the bed is so comfortable I drift off as soon as my head hits the pillow.

The next morning I woke up refreshed and after a breakfast of pancakes with banana and clotted cream, I went to orientation.

The Welcome Centre is large with a wooden floor, a stage at the far end with rows of plastic chairs facing it, along one wall four tables covered with red tablecloths. On the tables there are silver trays of biscuits including jammie dodgers, custard creams, and bourbons. There are cups and saucers with a choice of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. There are also jugs of different fruit juices.

The snacks and refreshments occupy three of the tables, on the fourth there is a collection of name tags. I select mine and pin it to my jacket lapel.

After pouring myself a cup of lukewarm “hot” chocolate, I manoeuvred myself deeper into the packed room.

Spotting  Maya in a group of people, she is talking to a tall woman with black curly hair,  I catch her eye and wave. Maya excuses herself and comes towards me, “who was that I ask”, 

 “oh! that was Cathy, a lovely woman”. “Now we better take our seats the presentation is about to begin”

We sat in the middle of a row. As the main door closes, rousing music begins playing. About half a minute later a medium size man in his fifties dressed all in black comes onto the stage to loud applause with shouts of, “we love you Alex” and “you rock man”.

 He is wearing a head microphone underneath a black fedora hat. He walks slowly to the center, stops and faces the audience, his twinkling blue eyes roam over us for a few seconds then he begins to speak, 

“Good morning, It is so nice to see new and returning faces, a warm welcome to you all”. “For those of you who don't know me, my name is Alex Wilson, founder of the Penpal Writers Retreat.” 

“There are lots of other retreats that use a combination of strict itineraries, workshops and seminars to give you back your creativity, so why choose us?”, “The answer is simple, here at Penpals we do not believe in itineraries or meticulously planned workshops to achieve creative harmony”. “Why would we want to waste your time and money on resources like that when the only thing you need to unlock your creativity is all around us, mother nature”. “So while you are with us, there are no carefully orchestrated activities”. “Heal yourself by taking a walk in nature, appreciate the beauty around you and by the end of your stay I promise you will be reconnected with what you lost”. “Thank you,for listening, enjoy your stay” As his speech concludes to thunderous applause, he jumps down from the stage and begins conversing and shaking hands with each audience member.

When he eventually reaches us  he says “Mr Weston welcome shaking me warmly by the hand. “ I hope you enjoy your stay”. It is when he greets Maya that I feel my anger rise. “Ms. Bishop, welcome, good to see you again”. I do not hear the rest of their conversation, that word ‘again’ is like a punch to my stomach.

At the end of orientation while others file out in a calm and orderly fashion talking between themselves my mind is neither calm nor orderly, it is in turmoil.

Making my way to the front, catching up with Maya I touch lightly on the arm, she turns and smile but upon seeing my  serious expression Maya’s smile changes to look of concern 

 ”Rob, are you okay ? What's wrong?”

“How could you I thought we are friends”

“We are” she says.

“If that’s true then why did  You lied to me” I say with an accusatory edge to my voice, 

 “I did not lie to you.”

“Yes you did” I reply

“Calm down, what are you talking about?” Maya asks puzzled 

“I can't calm down, I am anything but calm, you know Alex Wilson and you didn't tell me! You know the man that has inadvertently ruined my career by harassing me with those packages!”

“I only met him once at the TV station when I interviewed him, about his approach to mental wellbeing, I didn't know he was connected to those objects in your house” 

“Oh don't give me that you must have known the connection”

“Rob you are making assumptions where there are none, you are not thinking clearly” 

“When the week is over I want you out of my house!” I shout.

“Mr Weston! Ms Bishop!” a raised voice cuts through the air, we turn to see Alex Wilson striding towards us.

“What is the meaning of this outburst?” I glare at Alex. 

“You have ruined my career, why me? what have I ever done to you?” I ask,

“I will tell you anything you want to know, just not here, come inside please, this argument is drawing a crowd” he says in a whisper.

 I looked around, I had been so focused on Maya and our argument  that I had failed to notice the crowd that was gathering.  

“Shows over folks, nothing more to see here” Alex says to the crowd. 

The onlookers quickly disperse, as Alex walks towards the Welcome Center, we follow.

Once inside, he closes the door, takes a seat and motions for us to do the same.  

“Now Mr Western, how can I help you?” 

After telling him all about the mysterious packages that have arrived at my home, I asked the question that had been on my mind for so long. 

“What are they?” I ask

“The black blocks are Physical manifestations of writer's block" Alex replies, 

“Did you send them to me?” 

He shakes his head “I did not.”

“Then why did the packages come from this address?”  

“I don't know, maybe the ‘universe’ wanted to give you a hint on how to resolve your situation and guide you to me, many people on retreat have seen them, I myself have seen the blocks on occasions when I am struggling with my creativity, but I do not know where they originated.”

“Then why did Maya see them?”

“Maybe they chose to appear to her so she could help you to solve the mystery” 

“So how do you get rid of them?”  

“Just relax and they will go” 

I am dissatisfied with his ambiguous explanation, but I smile and say…

“Thank you for your time Alex.”

“Always happy to answer any questions you may have Rob,” Alex responds in an overenthusiastic tone.

With the argument still lingering in the air between us, Maya and I leave the Center and go our separate ways. Maya goes for a walk and I knock on Pod doors trying to corroborate Alex’s claim, everybody I speak to confirms the existence of the mysterious black blocks. It is late when the last door closes so I go back to my Pod trying to process everything I had learned.

I wanted to prove Alex wrong, and expose him as a charlatan, the solution to writer's block can not be that simple can it?  However, as the week progresses, I spend my days reluctantly walking  in nature with Maya appreciating the beauty that surrounds me and living without the distractions of the modern world,  passing groups of other Retreat participants including Cathy the woman who Maya met on our first day, the initial impression was spot on she is a sweet lady. They all are wearing rucksacks on their backs, wearing colourful clothing they periodically drink from flasks lost in their own thoughts. My creativity  returns  slowly at first like a trickle of water before an inevitable flood. I write a word or sentence each day detailing what I have seen and done that day and by the end of the week,the complementary notebooks are full of notes.

Despite this miraculous change a part of me remains sceptical. While driving home with Maya in silence, I wonder what if it is just a temporary fix and when I arrive home the blocks are still in my house, if so it would be very claustrophobic, in contrast to the wide open  space of the Penpal writer's retreat. However, upon returning home, after a meticulous search of every room,I am elated to discover they have vanished. A wave of euphoria washes over me. It feels as if a huge crushing weight has been lifted off me,I start laughing hysterically,  Alex was right. They were all right. A few minutes later Maya walks in, closing the front door.   

“Rob, what's so funny?Have you had too much fresh air?”, she inquires,

“They've gone”, I manage in between  laughing fits, “they have all gone”. “ Maya  comes into the study,and  seeing  the empty room, she asks.  

“Does this mean I can stay?". 

“Of course,” I reply.

The next day with the blocks gone, the sun shining outside my study window and my lost creativity restored I turn on my computer, and finally begin to write.