This is day 31 of @mydivathings's #365daysofwriting challenge! Wow! I have managed a whole month. Only another 11 to go!
Every day @mydivathings invites you to write a short story based on the image she chooses. Today's image (below) is a Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Find out more about the challenge (you can join anytime!) here @mydivathings/day-31-365-days-of-writing-challenge
It began, as these things often do, with a misunderstanding.
“I just need some space, that’s all,” I said.
“In that case,” Susan said. “I'll move out.”
“That's not what I meant,” I said. “I just need a space where I can work, undistracted by non work life. Surely, you can understand that!”
Susan’s stance - arms crossed, frown fixed on her face - told me she perhaps lacked a little understanding.
“The shed will be fine,” I said. “I can insulate it, run a cable over to it so can have light, heating and a socket to charge my laptop.”
“And having your own space will mean you'll be able to finish your book?” she asked, arms still crossed, frown still in place.
“Yes,” I said, convinced this - and this alone - was what was preventing me from starting my book, never mind finishing the damn thing.
“Hmmmm,” she said, uncrossing her arms. Then she promptly recrossed them. “You do realise, you said the same thing about the writing course, the laptop and the library you had to build to house all the how to write a novel self help books you bought?”
“That was different,” I said, feeling my bottom lip sticking out like a sulky child.
Six months later I was in my shoffice (as I liked to call it). It was warm, comfortable and I had reorganised it twenty seven times. The laptop was open. The cursor flashed - taunting me - next to the words: "Chapter One"
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes,” I said in a tone of voice that I hoped said I’m busy, working hard, please go away when really what I wanted was any excuse to take a “break”.
Susan popped her head around the door.
“Am I disturbing you?” she said, in a tone I suspected bordered on sarcasm.
“You know when the wreath is hanging on the door of the shoffice that I am not to be disturbed,” I said, realising as I spoke that I sounded like a self important nob-head.
“I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” she said. “You sound like a fucking nob-head. It’s a shed, Tom. Or an office. It is not a fucking shoffice.”
I rolled my eyes, and mouthed the word “whatever”.
“Look,” Susan said. “I won’t keep you long, Tom,” she laughs. “Literally, actually. I just thought you might like to know I am leaving you. Giving you all the space you need to write your precious novel.”
This time her tone was so laden with sarcasm, I couldn’t ignore it.
“I-” I began.
“I can’t talk about it anymore, Tom,” she said. “I have put up with your procrastination-” my mouth opened wide with shock, at this particular word, but she ignored me. “- and your excuses. But the hole in the bank account is getting bigger, and it isn’t going to be filled by your fucking novel, is it?”
“I-” I said
“No, it isn’t. Look I have a taxi waiting. I’m going to stay at my sisters. You’ll find a letter from my solicitor next to the microwave.”
And with that she was off.
I looked at the laptop for a minute, or so, and then I closed it with a sigh.
How can I possibly be expected to work, now?