The W.R.I.T.E. Directive

Friday evening trotted along after Friday afternoon. It does that, I've noticed it before. I'm sitting with my laptop across my knees and typing this. I have a brew cooling alongside me. All is well-ish...

It all began when I found an old notebook earlier today. Quite by accident. My purpose had been to tidy a cupboard. Simple, nothing out of the ordinary at all. 

As I cleared everything out, to put it all back in a neater order, the notebook leapt out. It did. A huge leap for freedom from under an old hoodie and a baseball cap. 

I caught the notebook with all the dexterity of an agile lamppost. But I didn't realise at first, which notebook it was. Only flipping through the pages did that realisation arrive. Like a grand unveiling of something almost, but not quite, forgotten. 

The notebook happened to be the first one I'd used to began writing with the purpose of becoming a writer. It contained my early scribblings. Early in the sense that I wrote them at the start. Not because of the hour of day. 

As I flipped the pages, Arthur, my internal editor piped up. 

—See that rubbish?

—It's not rubbish, Arthur, I'd begun learning, that's all.

—If I'd have seen that? I'd have told you to stop. 

—Thanks, as always, Arthur.

He had a point though. Arthur doesn't have a point. I mean he made a good point. As I read through the pages, I sighed. The contents reminded me of the struggle. The same struggle I have today. 

KNOCK, KNOCK!!! BRINNNNNNGGGG!!

Excuse me, there's someone at the door...

On opening it, a young lady stood there. She wore a long flowing skirt, a t-shirt under her woollen cardigan and flowery Doc Marten boots. 

—Hello! Good day to you!

—Er, hello? Can I help you? 

—No! Not at all. I am Penny from The Writers Output Regulatory Description Service (W.O.R.D.S). 

—Er, right?

—That notebook you found?

—How did you know about that?

—It triggered the emergency beacon. Known as the Writing Regulation Intensity Transmission Emission (W.R.I.T.E). 

—Righto, didn't know of any such thing.

—Oh yes, all notebooks have them if they become a writing tool.

—Okay, so what do you want? 

—Want? I don't want anything. I'm here to remind you to keep writing.

—Ah. Nah, I'm quitting. I can't get it right—

—Absolute bullshit, mate. Innit? Yer need to stop bein' a right bloody wuss an' get on wiv it.

I stared at her. She'd changed in a way that sounded altogether more... scary. 

—Sorry fer all me posh crap, a minute ago. I am called Penny. An' I am from WORDS. But I can see you ain't gonna be easy to convince of the right way.

—I'm rubbish, Penny. I'll give up. Let other writers crack on. There's many better than me—

—SHUT IT! That's a right load of bollocks! Yer write 'ow yer write. An' that's fine wiv us! We need writers wiv their own style. Otherwise, it all starts soundin' the same, innit?

—Er, right—

—Good! I'll be off. I need a pint down the Blind Beggar. Keep writing ya big numpty! 

She disappeared in a flash of a word cloud. 

I didn't know what to do. I closed the door and went to make a brew. The notebook sat on the kitchen counter. Opened. To a page with the words: Get writing, yer big numpty! on it. 

The kettle boiled and switched off with a loud CLICK!