Writer's Block

LONDON

1985

“I’m sorry, but no. Good day!” Jeremy Fischer says firmly, ending our discussion. I hastily gather up all the papers, ink staining my hands, and hurry out the door.

Cool autumn air swirls my hair around my face. I tuck a strand back behind my ear, sighing at another failed attempt to get my book published.

Mary Jane's Rose tells the fictional story of Mary Jane, a courageous young woman in the 1300s who survives the Black Plague and becomes an inspiration to all to persevere even when things get difficult. I wish I could be as brave as my own character. It seems as if no one wants to read about what happened centuries ago, no matter how good of a story I think it is.

I glance back at the sign hanging in the window behind me. Fischer’s Publication, Inc. “No point looking back now, is there?” I say to no one in particular.

“Alright, miss?” a bloke strolls past and tips his bowler hat at me. I nod back politely and wish that someone, anyone, would publish my story.

An editor would be brilliant, as well, but I’ve already proofread it thousands of times. Now, it just needs to get out into the public–but I can’t do that alone.

Later that day, I sit down at my rickety dining table for dinner. An unappetizing plate consisting of a piece of hard bread and cold potatoes. No book, no money. No money, no food… well, no good food. In any case, if I don’t publish my book soon and make a living off of it, I might not be able to pay rent on this house anymore. I gulp at the thought of making a home on the streets and alleys.

The sharp ring of the house phone echoes through the quiet room. I jump up from the table and hurry over. The black receiver sits on its cradle, waiting. I grab it, the cord pulling tight in my hand as I lift it to my ear.

“Hello?” I begin, the line crackling as I wait.

“Rachel Bennett?” a man asks.

“Yes,” I say, wondering who's calling.

“My name’s Simon Wells at Brighton & Wells Publishing. Heard you’re after a publisher?”

I’m stunned. A publisher? Wanting to publish my book?

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say, finally.

“Brilliant. Could you pop by our office tomorrow around mid-mornin’?”

“Uhh... yeah, that works.”

“Cheers! See you then.”

I’m still in shock, not quite processing what he just told me, and the line hangs up before I can respond. I clutch the receiver a little tighter, heart pounding with a mix of disbelief and excitement. Slowly, I lower it back onto the cradle, a huge smile threatening to break free.

For a moment, the quiet room feels brighter—like the world just opened a new door for me. My hand lingers there, fingers trembling, but this time it’s the good kind of shake.

The next day, I put on my best outfit—well, as best as I can manage. I pull on a cream blouse, its fabric a little worn but freshly washed and neatly ironed. My favorite dark skirt, the one that still holds its shape despite the years, is carefully smoothed over my legs. I slip on a faded cardigan, the sleeves a bit threadbare, but it adds a touch of warmth and something that feels like professionalism.

I look down at my shoes—clean, scuffed flats—and give a small sigh. Not new, but polished enough to pass.

Standing in front of the cracked mirror, I take a deep breath. My reflection stares back—nervous, hopeful, determined. Today is my chance. Time to show them who I really am.

I step outside, the chilly London air wrapping around me like a nervous hug. The bus stop isn’t far—just down the block—and I spot the familiar red double-decker rolling in. I climb aboard, dropping my last few coins into the fare box with a shaky hand.

The bus hums along the busy London streets, windows fogged just a bit from the chill outside. I clutch my worn bag tight, my heart ticking louder with every stop we pass. People chat quietly around me, lost in their own worlds, but I’m somewhere else entirely—already rehearsing what I’ll say to Simon Wells at Brighton & Wells.

The city blurs past, a mix of brick buildings and early autumn leaves swirling in the wind. One stop closer to a new beginning.

“Pardon,” I say quietly to the receptionist at Brighton & Wells Publishing. She looks up with a smile. “I believe I have a meeting with Simon Wells?”

Recognition dawns on her face. “Rachel Bennett?” she asks. I nod, fidgety with anticipation.

“Right this way,” the woman stands and shows me to a door along the hallway. A plaque mounted against the smooth oak reads, Simon Wells, Co-Publisher & Acquisitions Editor.

I thank the receptionist and knock on the door. “Come in!” a voice calls from inside.

I open the door slowly. “Mr. Wells?”

“Oh, just Simon, please. Lovely to meet you, Ms. Bennett!”

I blush. “Rachel is fine, thanks.”

Simon motions towards the seat on the other side of his desk. I sit, removing my bag from around my neck and setting it in my lap. The worn leather flap keeps my book safe–the pages, those pieces of me, tucked away inside.

Simon smiles warmly. “So, Rachel, tell me a bit about your story. What inspired you to write Mary Jane's Rose?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady the excitement and nerves bubbling inside me. “It’s about hope and strength during dark times… kind of like what I’m hoping for now.”

He chuckles softly. “Well, you’re in the right place for hope, I reckon.”

I carefully pull the pages out of my bag and hand them to Simon. His eyes begin skimming through the lines. I tell him about my story, trying to make my words paint a passionate picture for him. I have to make him love my book–it’s the only chance I’ve got to turn this whole thing around.

I finish my summary and lean back in my chair. Simon’s fingers are intertwined, resting his hands on the desk in front of him.

“Blimey,” he breathes. “That was brilliant.”

“It was?” I gasp hopefully.

“Yes!” Simon says. “You, your writing style–I love it. Only one thing…”

I nod, trying to compose myself and not get too excited.

“I’m not sure that this story is what the public wants right now.”

My face falls. It’s exactly what all those other companies told me, just in a much more courteous way. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up so much.

Simon mutters incomprehensibly to himself for a moment.

“Well, I guess… hmm, that could work–let me tell you something, Rachel.”

I sit up straight, trying to neutralize my expression.

“You’re a brilliant author; I mean it. I want to publish your book–hmm, yes, I think this will work–how do you feel about writing another story, and we’ll publish that one?”

“Another?” I exclaim. It took me ages to write this one!

“Yes, yes, if you can write another story about current events, things people will be interested in, we’ll publish it for you.”

I bite my lip, considering his offer. As long as there’s not a tight deadline, I might just be able to do it.

“Oh, and we’ll need it done in seven days,” Simon adds.

I want to scream. Just when I get a good opportunity, it gets ruined like this. How am I supposed to write an entirely new story in a week?

“I, uh, er…”

“Brilliant! See you back here in a week, yeah?”

I gather up my papers, stuffing them back into my bag without really thinking about it. Seven days? He can’t be serious!

I find myself back on the bus headed home. My mind spins in circles, like a dog chasing its tail. Seven days… I’d need to get started on it right away. It could be about a young woman named Louise Turner... who navigates life during a huge city lockdown—she faces loneliness, finds new ways to connect, and discovers inner strength in a world turned upside down. It could be all about hope and resilience in modern times, something everyone can relate to right now.

Yes, that’s it! If I can start writing as soon as I get home, there might just be a chance that I can finish it by the deadline.

Four days later, I am banging my head against a wall. Quite literally.

This story is driving me insane! I’m not even halfway through with it, and I only have two and a half days to finish it. My fingers are cramping from writing, my eyes burning and heavy from staring at the paper for so long, and my brain feels like scrambled eggs. Every idea I think is good somehow turns into mush the moment I write it down.

I pace around my tiny room, clutching a piece of parchment like it’s the last lifeline I have. I’m desperate to find something—a spark, a twist, a fresh angle—to bring this story to life before time runs out.

But what if it’s not good enough? What if I fail again?

No, I can’t think like that. I have to finish. For my book. For me. For the chance I’ve been waiting for.

Taking a deep breath, I sit back down at my desk and force my fingers to start moving again. The clock’s ticking, and there’s no time for anything but writing.

The night before the deadline, I get a call from Simon Wells.

“Rachel! How’s the story coming along?”

I groan internally but make my voice cheerful. “Fantastic! I'm almost finished! Just one final chapter.”

“That’s great to hear. Can’t wait to see it tomorrow! Cheers!”

“Cheers,” I echo. The line disconnects, and I get back to the sleep-depriver itself, my book.

The bus won’t travel slow enough. I waited until the very last second before I left my house; I’m still writing the last few words here on my way to Brighton & Wells. I hope I can finish it before my stop.

The end, I scribble. Elation fills me up. I did it. I finished a story in seven days. And I'm on my way to get it published.

The receptionist greets me as I run into the building, waving my papers around in the air like a flag signaling victory.

“Mr. Wells is in his office,” the receptionist offers a bright smile. “Thank you!” I call breathlessly, bursting into Simon’s room.

“Here! I got it. I did it,” I slap the papers down on his desk, panting.

Simon laughs, awe in his eyes. He picks up my book and quickly reads through the first couple pages. “Blimey, you really did it,” he mumbles, his eyes flickering across the words.

“This is brilliant!” he exclaims, looking up at me in admiration. “Everyone’s going to love it!”

I laugh exuberantly, quite proud of myself.

“We’ll get right on publishing this,” he explains, standing and gesturing for me to follow him out of the room. He leads me to another door and knocks. This one’s plaque reads, Mark Brighton, Co-Publisher and Manuscript Manager.

“It’s Simon,” he says.

The door opens. A man, a little older than Simon, greets us with a grin. “Come in!” he beckons us inside.

“Mark, this is Rachel Bennett.” Simon explains. He tells Mark Brighton what’s been happening the last week with my book.

“Her new manuscript’s brilliant–we should get on publishing it immediately. I already know that people’re going to love it.”

“Fantastic!” Mark says. “This story’s a game-changer. Let’s blow this thing up and get you famous.”

Three months later, my book is flying off the shelves—everyone’s chatting about Louise Turner, and I’m finally starting to feel like a proper author.

So maybe success doesn’t come to you immediately. Maybe the key to achieving your goals is keeping your faith and pushing forward, even when the road gets rocky. And maybe fame isn’t for everyone.

But you never know till you try.