James Elliott sat staring at the computer, deleting over and over again.

Writer's block!

He poured himself a large whiskey, anything to avoid the blank screen taunting him.
He would run with an idea, then just stop and scraping his hands through his long, thick, dirty blonde hair shout: 'Shit, shit and more shit!''

Downing his scotch in one gulp, he realised this wasn't working. He sighed in exasperation, muttering to himself:
''Why is it so easy to write others' stories and not my own !? ''

Of course, James could already answer that question. He could write up a storm, BUT, the idea, the plot, ’Aye, therein lies the rub’ to quote good old Shakespeare.

Resigning himself to his fate, he strolled over to his antique, walnut, roll top desk, his prize possession, bought with his first big earnings back in the days when he thought he would do his own serious writing there.

He loved sitting there, writing with his fountain pen, he felt his words come alive. Not that he objected to the pc, it was faster, cleaner and much more convenient for storing files, but it didn't give him the same kick as the feel of his pen scratching on paper.

Rolling back the top, he picked up a manuscript with a synopsis.

Ah well, suppose I had better make a start, a guy has needs and one of them is eating he thought wryly. Pouring himself another over generous scotch, he began to read.

After some time he noticed that the light was fading and to his great surprise realised he had been reading for two hours! This was really long for a synopsis, yet he was feeling quite excited at the thought of writing this, it was damn good and even the writing itself was great!

He couldn't understand why on earth this person needed a ghost writer, they were more than capable and very talented. Still, some people didn't really enjoy the process of writing, he knew that.

The effects of the scotch on an empty stomach, for he had been so absorbed he had totally forgotten to eat, had made his eyes droopy, going into his bedroom he flopped on the unmade bed fully clothed and drifted into a comfy slightly alcohol induced slumber.

The next morning after a very lengthy, invigorating shower and an unusually large breakfast, he settled down to work.

The words seemed to flow like raging river rapids.There was something about this story that seemed to write itself, in a weird way, he kind of knew what he was going to write before he had even written it.

The characters were so true and convincing and the unfolding of the plot so subtle and sophisticated. To say he was impressed was an understatement.

He never met the authors as a rule, just communicating through the agents and online, but he felt himself intrigued by this writer and developed a strong desire to meet them.

Forcing himself to take a break, stretching and taking a cold Perrier from his icebox, no alcohol today, he decided to phone Tom, his agent, to see if there was any chance of meeting up with this writer.

He couldn't get away from the idea that he might have already met them and they could have pitched him this plot, maybe at some literary dinner or charity event of some kind. He had their manuscript, so Tom must have sent it along with the rest.

Lounging back on the soft, smoky blue leather sofa, he dialled Tom's number and after a few seconds, he heard the usual gruff voice say,''Yeah?'' Tom didn't need to say it was him, since everyone recognised that too many cigars voice.

''Hey Tom, James here.''

'' Hope ya got something ready for me."

No pleasantries observed with old Tom, James smirked.

''Well yeah, just working on it now, but was wondering if you could arrange drinks or lunch with the author, really great pitch, would be a big help to meet them.''

''Who?’’, Tom was a man of few words, saying words cost time and time cost money.

‘’Don't know, actually, but the title is,'Changing Tides.''

''Hmmmm, don't recognise it, hold on'', James could hear shuffling papers in the background.

Tom refused to work on a computer saying that was why he had a secretary and he knew where to find everything, which on seeing his desk would be hard to believe.

‘’Ok, got it,’’ there was a pause and James could picture Tom squinting down the list of manuscripts while wearing his glasses atop his head.

‘’Nope, I didn’t sendya that-hey you cheatin’ on old Tom!?’’

‘’Sure, I am, what do you think, you‘re the best agent in the city, you weird SOB-and you know it!’’

‘’Well, it ain’t from me’’, he croaked and James heard him hang up.

He decided to carry on, working all through most of the night.

Finally, as dawn was peeping through his drapes, hearing the sounds of the awakening neighbourhood, he stretched and typed, ’’The End’’ removing his glasses he rubbed his tired eyes, then folding the last page of the manuscript, he saw in the corner a scribbled name, pushing his glasses back on, he stared in utter disbelief as he read the name.

James Elliott.

James chuckled to himself and said 'Well they do say a genius is the one most like himself!'