How to Inadvertently Become a Writer.

He was on his way to see his friends, and he was late for his train. He had lost track of the time because he had a great idea for a story, which wasn’t that uncommon for Frank these days. Ever since he picked up the little black book to write in, hours went by and another story flew out.

It had taken Frank years to finally use that book after his old flatmate Carl had given it to him as a parting gift when Carl eventually moved out of the rotten student flat they had rented back when they were eighteen. “Get a hobby, you boring bastard,” Carl said with a tear in his eye. Out of sheer stubbornness, Frank hadn’t written in the book for years, mostly because he hated when Carl was right, but the day soon came when he gave up his pride and began writing in his book. Carl was right, before Frank wrote in that black book he was just a boring bastard with no hobbies.

Frank leapt on the nearly empty train, almost getting stuck between the closing doors. He pulled the little black book from the back pocket of his jeans - it always felt safe to keep it there - and read over some of his past stories, cursing his spelling mistakes. Realising this must look rather peculiar to the few other passengers on board, Frank peeked up over the book and, sure enough, an old woman was stifling a laugh. Frank hated knowing that this woman probably thought he was insane and although he had no desire to be a popular person, he simultaneously didn’t like anyone thinking ill of him. A paradox even Frank didn’t understand, nonetheless, he put his book on the seat next to him and sat on his phone like every other commuter in the city.

Frank got off the train and walked begrudgingly to the pub where his friends were going, knowing full well that this entire night had been organised by his friends to drag him out of his flat. He hadn’t seen people for a few months now, without Carl, Frank felt a bit lost but tonight would be the first time he had hung out with his friends without Carl. Would they mention it? Would it be the elephant in the room? Would they even like him without Carl there?

Frank arrived at the pub, his friends were late – that was to be expected. Frank breathed a sigh of relief, he could read and write while he waited for them, he felt that a story was on the tip of his tongue. He nabbed a good table and reached into his back pocket and…

Gone. His black book was gone!

Frank’s mind immediately went into crisis mode. Where had he left it? Where was the last place he held it in his hands? The train seat. He didn’t know what to think, what to do, how to feel? No, he knew how to feel, he felt angry. Angry at himself, but mostly angry at that woman who had laughed at him and made him feel self-conscious so he had put the book down. No, he knew he had to blame himself. What would Carl have thought?

Frank tried to explain his loss to his friends when they arrived, they didn’t understand. “It’s just a book, buy another one!” they said. It wasn’t like that for Frank, he was tied to this book, the escapism that it brought was unrivalled to anything else in his life.

When Frank got back to his flat that night, he searched high and low for a scrap of paper that he could try to rewrite what was lost. The rewrites just weren’t the same and he gave up.

He looked at his watch. Slumped on the couch, it was quarter-past three in the morning. Frank remembered the day he first picked up the book to write in. It was so vivid, he remembered the phone call he had gotten just five minutes prior, how awful the news was, how much he needed to distract himself with something, anything. That black book gave him that distraction, that support. How could he have carelessly lost it?

After three months of not writing, Frank felt as if he was living each day the same as the last. Until that one day, the anniversary of when he started writing. The anniversary of…

He slid into his white shirt, suit trousers, tie, and then jacket. He wasn’t sure if he could put his shoes on, but he had to. Check the watch, running late. He left his flat and jumped on a train. Of all the day’s he’s been late in the last year, he was happy about this one. He reeled off the train, checked his GPS and made his way towards the community centre. He entered as quietly as he could as he made it just before the service started. Before he could take his seat in the back row, he saw the programme with a photo and name on it. Remembering Carl Angelo.

He sat through the service, doing his best to be there but not listen. He couldn’t do it, every now and then he would hear the name, “Carl” and it would echo in his mind. At the end of the service, he waited until Carl’s family had left, sobbed, and then stood up, ready to leave. Carl’s family stood in the doorway, they had met Frank a few times, and Frank liked them, but he knew today wasn’t about him. He calmly shook their hand’s one by one, while they thanked him with glassy eyes. He was shaking hands with Carl’s mum as she said to him, “Thank you for being one of his closest friends,” she wiped her eyes, “He really loved you, Frank.” Frank did his best to be appreciative and say, “Thank you,” but he had a catch in his throat. Carl’s Mum understood what he meant to say, and let Frank go. Frank looked back along the row of family members who were all still grieving heavily one year on and left.

Frank simply could not take the train, not today. The walk to his flat would take more than two hours, but the train felt like too much today. As he began his walk, he realised going back to the flat where he had shared with Carl would be too much, especially without his black book.

He walked on a busy main street and was skimming shop windows, begging for something to help him forget this day. And there, in the window of a large bookshop, Frank saw a little black book. He hadn’t written in three months but knew this was too poetic an opportunity to pass up. He went into the shop, and picked up one of the black books from the pile, and clutched it tightly with one hand. It looked similar, just less rugged.

Frank decided to look around the shop, mostly he wanted to check out his favourite section. The short story collections. There were plenty of his best-loved collections of Kafka, Goethe amongst other classics but then he saw a collection that he had not yet encountered, Dedicated to Carl.

Was it a coincidence? The three words that were on the front page of his black book, were now on not just one, but multiple books in a bookshop? Frank shakily reached toward the box of short stories, he pulled out one of the books, it was one of his stories from his lost book, and then another, and another, until he realised that’s all that was in this collection. He went to the front desk, purchased the collection, and the new black book, and made his way back to his flat.

When he was back at his flat, he drank a pint of water, ate some leftover toast and went on his laptop. He angrily searched a number for the publishing company and called their helpline. It gave two rings and he heard, “Hello, Red and Yellow Publishers, how can I help?” Frank was caught off guard and said, “Dedicated to Carl, I wrote it, why was it published?” The voice then said, “Can you please hold, I’m putting you through to an Editor.” Frank was shocked, he hadn’t prepared for this and he was about to talk to one of the editors of his private book that was published.

It was fifteen minutes on hold, and then he heard a click, “Hello, so I hear that this is our anonymous writer. You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to talk to you.” Frank heard this and didn’t even acknowledge the compliment. “How did you get my book? What makes you think you can publish the stories from it?” Frank spat out these questions, not entirely sure what he would gain from the answers. “Well that’s simple,” said the editor, “You happened to be sitting across from one of our readers on that train, you know? Where you left the book. She picked it up after you rushed off the train, and brought it to work the next day because she thought they were brilliant. You didn’t have your name or anything on the book so we couldn’t get it back to you. It was brought to my attention, and I completely agreed that it was brilliant. There was no way to trace it back to you so we thought we should fast-track the publishing and forget the author name, and just put it into the world. We had no idea people would love the concept so much! It’s a Banksy-esque concept or something like that, I suppose!” The editor sounded very excited, but Frank wasn’t convinced, “This is my work, this is personal, you say that my work is loved. You published it without me knowing, this is a lawsuit, I’m sure of it!” Frank was not at all certain if it was, but he decided at the time it was a worthwhile punt. “Well you see…” said the editor, “I actually have a proposition for you, how about, we pay you for this work, you keep writing, anonymously of course, and we publish it! You get the majority of the profit and trust me, we could really make this work for you.” Frank was stunned, but he knew his answer as the question was being asked. “Yes, I’d love that.”

At the end of their phone call, it was agreed Frank would go to the offices of Red and Yellow Publishers, and he’d go and sign the contract. Frank walked into the publishing house, nervous, still confused and a little bit excited. He immediately recognised the voice of the man that had offered him the contract. After that, things moved quickly, he was swept off into an office, sat in front of a big oak desk and handed the contract. Frank held the contract in his hand, the promises made on the phone were all here, in print, he signed. Frank sat back in the chair, taking this all in, Carl would have been proud - boring bastard no more! Suddenly, a smaller piece of paper was put in front of him. A cheque for £20,000 from the editor. “Is this..for me?”, Frank asked, breathless with shock. The man from the phone looked at him “Consider it your first pay-check, don’t spend it all at once.”

Frank walked home, unsure whether he was dreaming. He had never had as much as one hundred pounds to spare, never mind twenty thousand! He thought again of Carl, and what Carl had done for him, without even knowing. He thought of the black book and all the stories that were now published, he thought of all the stories he would now write in his new black book! Frank had inadvertently become a writer.