Page 3 of Twisted Paths

"Morning? Luke, it's nearly noon. You were supposed to send me something by now. A paragraph. A sentence. A single coherent thought."

I glance at my notebook, where a page of disjointed scribbles mocks me.Detective doesn’t realise he’s solving his own murder.Crossed out.Serial killer targets people who leave one-star reviews.Crossed out, but with an asterisk. I close it.

"I'm in the thinking stage," I say, spinning my pen between my fingers.

Philip makes an impatient noise. "You’ve been in the thinking stage for six months."

"Thinking is important."

"Writing is also important. Preferably before your deadline."

I sigh, staring at the blank page again. "Fine. You want ideas? How about this: a former criminal defence lawyer becomes a famous bestselling author and moves to the countryside, hoping for a fresh start, but instead, he slowly loses his mind while his editor nags him to death."

"Sounds dull," Philip says. "No one would read it."

"Well, I’m living it, so that makes two of us suffering."

He ignores me. "Come on, Luke, throw something at me. Anything."

I rub my jaw, glancing at the notebook again. "Alright. A detective… who doesn’t realise he’s solving his own murder."

"That isThe Sixth Sensewith extra admin," Philip says after a brief pause.

I grimace. "Fine. What about an author who turns serial killer—"

"If this is about the Goodreads review, I swear to God—"

"It was an unfair review," I mutter.

Philip groans. "Youdorealise your deadline is in three months?"

"I have been made aware, yes."

"For a book. That does not exist."

"Excellent summary of the problem."

"You've written twenty-three novels, Luke. You’ve pulled off impossible deadlines before. What’s different now?"

I press my fingers against my temple. "I don't know. I just…" I exhale. "There’s nothing there. No spark, no ideas, nothing I care to write about."

The line is quiet for a moment. Then Philip speaks, his voice a fraction softer. "You’ve been shut away in that house for months. You need to get out of your own head."

I frown. "I go out."

"Walking to your letterbox does not count."

I shift in my chair. "I get coffee every morning."

"Right, and how meaningful are these interactions? Do you pour your heart out to the barista? Are you forging deep human connections over your flat white?"

"She knows my order," I say. "That’s a connection."

Philip groans. "Luke. You need new input. Something real. Something thatisn'tmurder related."

"That limits my options."

"Join something. A club. A group. I don’t know, take up pottery. Just dosomethingthat doesn’t involve you sitting alone, glaring at a screen."

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