Clara McAllister had always dreamt of becoming a famous author, and when she got an email from the illustrious Big Quill Publishing offering her a contract for her first novel, she screamed so loudly that her neighbor, old Mr. Higgins, thought she’d discovered gold in her one-bedroom apartment.
The catch? The manuscript was due in one week. Clara’s half-finished novel, The Shadows of Winkleberry Manor, about a Victorian detective with a pigeon sidekick, was nothing short of chaotic. But who was she to say no to fame and fortune?
On the first day, Clara set up her “writing essentials”: a steaming cup of Earl Grey, a blanket she called “The Creative Cape,” and a mood playlist titled Epic Novelist Jams. She sat in front of her laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready for brilliance.
Nothing came.
“Oh no,” she whispered, staring at the blinking cursor, which seemed to mock her with every flash.
Day two involved Clara attempting every trick in the writer’s book. She tried sitting upside down (“to get the creative juices flowing”), recited poetry to her houseplant Steve, and even burned a lavender-scented candle labeled Literary Inspiration. Steve remained unimpressed, and Clara’s mind stayed as empty as her plot.
By day four, desperation turned into wild brainstorming. Clara found herself in the library, covertly following a mysterious man in a trench coat who kept whispering into his phone. She imagined he was an international spy, but when he abruptly turned and asked her if she was there for the “antique jigsaw puzzle meet-up,” she bolted and tripped over a book titled The Complete Guide to Chicken Farming.
Clara was spiraling.
Day six arrived with no new pages and a creeping existential crisis. She dreamed she was at the book launch, only to find her manuscript was just a single page with the words Help me repeated 300 times. She woke up in a cold sweat.
Finally, it was the evening before the deadline. Clara sat in her chair, defeated. The shadows outside seemed to dance in mockery. She glanced at Steve, her unhelpful houseplant, and sighed. Just then, a small, insistent peck came from her window. Clara turned to see a pigeon, perched defiantly on the sill, staring at her as if to say, “Hurry up, genius.”
Clara blinked. “A pigeon,” she muttered. Then, like a divine spark, it clicked. She grabbed her keyboard and began to type furiously:
“Detective Cornelius Featherstone, with his feathered sidekick, Gregory the Brave, stepped into the moonlit corridor of Winkleberry Manor...”
The words poured out of her like rain after a drought. When she typed the final sentence, the sun had already begun to rise, and Gregory the Brave had saved the day with a peck to the villain’s knee.
Clara sent her manuscript with a triumphant click and collapsed into a heap. One week later, Big Quill Publishing called.
“Clara, it’s brilliant,” said her editor. “We especially love Gregory. Who knew a pigeon could be so compelling?”
“Yeah,” Clara mumbled, glancing at her window, where Gregory the pigeon was now preening. “Who knew?”