Philippe’s Plan

Philippe had notebooks full of plans. Jotted down plot ideas. Midnight inspirations about characters. He had more pages of plans than pages of actual writing, like a squirrel has more nuts in a cache than in its belly. He was never sure these ideas should ever see the light of day but he held on to them, nonetheless.

The writing holiday on the Yorkshire Moors had sounded idyllic. What was there not to like? Meeting with fellow writers, the opportunity to concentrate on creativity and the stunning scenery. It would be a chance, he told himself, to air his ideas. Talk them through with others before he committed fully to them. And, who knew, he could even manage to actually get some actual writing done.

So Philippe booked himself a place on the course.

The first night in the old inn had been great. The fire had burned bright in the grate whilst the wind had roared down from the frosty wastelands above them. Snug inside, the sparks and flames had glittered on their glasses just as the creative conversations had sparkled around the saloon bar. It had been perfect. With one or two drinks inside him, Philippe had allowed his smile to grow more relaxed and friendly. The feeling of fitting in stole down through his body. It loosened his tense shoulders, unleashed pent-up guffaws and even, (dangerously) kick-started his dancing feet.

The only blemish for Philippe was the appearance of Guy. Guy wasn’t his actual name but Philippe had forgotten the name the man had given him when they first began talking. The thing was, Guy was dull. Really dull. Olympic standard. All he could do was talk through his post-modern novel, which did not make sense when told in a noisy room after a few drinks. But no amount of questioning put him off. He just expounded and expanded on his ideas; Philippe could feel the yawns battling to break out from deep inside him.

“The Tower Under the Sea is where the main character has an epiphany.”

“Oh yes?” Philippe ventured a question. “What epiphany is that?”

Guy looked indulgently at him, like he was some young child.

“You, my friend, have made the same mistake that most people make. I do not know the epiphany, of course.”

Philippe let loose a consonant free noise of vague confusion.

“It’s as I explained in the beginning,” Guy continued, a smug smile on his face, “the reader is my main character. Therefore, I cannot tell what that epiphany is. All I can do is mould their reality so they have one.”

For the rest of the evening, Philippe tried his best to shake off the dull man but nothing really worked. Something had convinced Guy that they were now firm friends.


It was later in the week when they went on a trip out to the moors designed to inspire their writing. Philippe spirited himself away from the group and attacked a nearby hill. There was a touch of snow and ice at the top. From his solitary spot, Philippe could see the coloured mosaic of winter jackets of his fellow writers milling around in the lane. The mist from their chattering rose. Philippe fancied it was made extra dense by the pretentious nonsense they were speaking.

He crossed to the far side of the hill. The wind cut across the dales. It was chilling but Philippe felt it cleanse him. As he stood alone up there, the inspiration truly hit him. It was a beautiful moment. Suddenly, he was at one with the world. The novel he dreamed of writing was fully in his grasp. The words emerged without any effort and joined together to form beautiful sentences. These became paragraphs and chapters. He sighed. Peace was his.

“Philippe?”

Guy was puffing up behind him.

“Just wondered where you were,” he said. Innocent charm shone from his round, bland face; he was looking at Philippe as if he was presenting him with a marvellous gift.

“Just thinking. You know, planning. “ Philippe’s words were just audible through gritted teeth.

Guy smiled and asked “Any ideas?”

“Just the one.”

“Tell me all about it!”

In the next moment, all the resentment that had been building up inside Philippe spilled over.

Seconds later, his frozen fingers were scrabbling in his coat pocket, feeling for his pen and notepad. He had some real writing to do.

He looked down at the lifeless figure far below him.

“That’s pretty much it. That’s my idea. Like it?”

Stephen Leatherdale

Written by

Writer, reader, drummer, listener, nature lover, husband, parent and worker. Finished my old journey and starting my new one.

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