Walking, walking, walking... Why was he walking? Yes, that was it, to clear his head. He’d been in the house for far too long, smoking, drinking, staring at the screen. Night after night, that blank white page screamed for more, but come morning it was always empty; the words refused to settle... Of course, he thought, that’s it! That’s a brilliant idea: ‘a writer struggling with writer’s block!’ No, he thought, no there’s nothing new about that. Keep walking, keep walking...

He needed something fresh, something original. He was sick of starting a story and pages into it, having his conscience sneak up and whisper:
“Hey, isn’t that kind-of like that book, you know, what’s-it-called...?”

Sure, style and content are important, he knew that. But it’s ideas that make the world go round, and he knew that too. Come on, he thought, think of something, all you need is one, decent idea...

Suddenly it hit him, slapping his face like a pancake; a white piece of paper covered in scratchy, scrawly hand-writing:



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