As some of my friends know, Ive from time to time made a delve into the world of literature as a writer. I breezed through both my Standard Grade and Higher English at school relying on creative writing pieces to flesh out my marks and I won a free book from Waterstones for gaining first place in a regional creative writing competition.
However I lack motivation and ideally need someone to constantly pressure me into writing. Ideally, if I had someone say “I will give you money to complete this book.” I would pull out all the stops and complete a book. Thats most likely not going to happen.
I recently signed up to a writers website based in the UK, filled with writers all in the same boat (though admittedly with significantly more drive than me). They also offer courses on how to write correctly, something that Im considering taking – years of reading Robert Rankin and Terry Pratchett has given me bad habits when it comes to writing so I could do with a swift refresher on how I should be writing.
Anyway, I’ve started writing a new short story which has no title yet – heres a snippet from the intro (only done 2000 words so far though):

Jack stared blankly at the desk in front of him, trying to recall the chain of events that had led him to his current state. His current state being that of one tied to a chair in a basement covered in horse blood and feeling rather sorry for himself. The evening rays of sunshine struggled to push through a grimy window, the only source of light in a cramped basement though serving little more than to illuminate Jack and a few dancing dust motes.
Suddenly, a hand slapped down on the table in front of Jack, upsetting a collection of tools and scrap metal, not to mention severely upsetting Jack who was feeling rather hard done by as well as sorry for himself. The owner of the hand leaned forward into the dull pool of light, revealing a heavily bearded face wearing a very angry expression.
“You’re in a lot of trouble kid; you owe me 20 kilos of Orc Dust, a horse and a sum of cash yet to be decided by my esteemed co-workers.” A couple of sniggers from behind Jack suggested that the co-workers were, although esteemed, not feeling too charitable. “So what do you have to say for yourself?”
Jack looked up blearily with red-rimmed eyes, “Do you accept credit card?”
The hand previously used for table-slapping became one used for Jack-punching. As the room spun around him and began to fade, Jack became acutely aware that today was probably not the luckiest day he’d ever had.