Who really is W.B Watson?

Imogen Clements (16/12/2021)

Please be advised that this story is recommended for people 12+

The crisp air nips at my neck, causing me to pull my scarf tighter around my neck as I tread through the crisp white snow leaving footprints behind me as I get closer and closer towards the little wooden bench, encased in a cocoon of frost that lies right next to the bus stop. As I finally reach the bus stop, I am surrounded by sounds of babies crying, teens smacking gum, a businessman having an arguing match with a fellow colleague and worst of all an old grandma having a coughing fit. All of a sudden, the sounds kept getting louder and louder and louder like a hammer drill taking over all of my senses. As I sit down on the bench the person next to me (the one smacking gum) decides to rant about their day going on and on and about how there is this guy in her class who she really likes, why do I even need to know about this, It’s not like even know who they are talking about. Phew, saved by the bell, the big fire truck red double-decker bus comes to stop signaling me to escape this hell hole and travel to my desired destination, my publishing office where W.B Watson and I are supposed to talk over their new idea for their next novel.

The bus comes to a stop and I slowly walk down the stairs exiting the bus, my feet coming into contact with the frost-covered pathway that leads up to the building complex that my office is in.

As I enter the complex, I turn left straight past the sign that says in big white block letters Ink n Paper Publishing straight into my small box-like room. It's nothing much but it’s still my home away from home. There is a small desk in the middle of the room that has all of the essential supplies on it including my laptop, pens, notepad, sticky notes, stapler, and work phone. To the right, there is a printer placed on top of a filing cabinet. As I start to make myself comfortable the work phone starts to ring, wrapping my fingers around it I place it up to my ear hearing the voice of the admin lady saying “W.B Watson is here to see you should I send them up?” I reply with yes please and soon enough there is a knocking at the door, I get out of my seat and open the door coming face to face with them. “Please make yourself at home”, I said. To which they much obliged

“What did ya need to talk about?” They said In a raspy tone. To which I responded with. “How long do you think it will take you to finish that new book you were telling me about, the one with Classic Literature and Visual Arts, the editing company wants you to send a direct copy to them in about 3 weeks so they can edit it quickly and then send it back to me so I can publish it. Also, your manager just called me saying that they are planning on doing a book tour soon so you can promote the novel. After all, it has been 4 years since you released your last novel and you need to regain your fame.”

In one big rambling mess, they responded with “No I don’t think I will ever get it done, I am so scared that I am going ta fail and everyone is going ta laugh at me because of it. Da truth is the reason why I haven’t written another novel in da past four years is that I don’t think I will ever regain the success that my first book had and I can’t deal with all the pressure that everyone is putting on me, especially mah friends ‘n family.”

This was the first sign of self-sabotage and little did I know there was many more to come.