Suaibhneas Writers Retreat has oak panels. And well stocked bookshelves. And comfortable chairs. And a gently warming turf fire.

It is a place for writers to go when they experience burnout.

Three authors sat there that night:

  • Phonc Amazing 
  • Donnachadh Consternation 
  • And Corcradh MacGiollalostín

‘My greatest fear is a blank page’, announced Corcradh.

Phonc tossed a sod onto the fire.

‘A blank page is literally nothing Corcradh. And nothing to fear. Anyway, literary fiction is just posh nonsense. Write anything. How about a tale called Hullbally Downs? The Princess Floggendybritches had an affair with the Duke of Flonkshire. And it’s like scandalous, or whatever.’

‘It’s not that simple Phonc’, muttered Corcradh.

‘Only because you make it difficult. There’s no such thing as writer’s block. How about Barracuda Jack? The tale of an aging lobsterman who decides to go off and catch a sperm whale, but the adventure wrecks his boat and leaves him with nothing.’

‘That story has been told Phonc’, muttered Corcradh.

‘But what if Barracuda Jack had a body of steel? And instead of a sperm whale he was hunting a sentient U-boat? That’d give it a twist. Ye should both write science fiction.’

The retreat fell briefly silent.

‘My greatest fear is a blank page too, Corcradh’, agreed Donnachadh.

‘A horror writer afraid of a harmless blank page! Surely you can create something more terrible than that, Donnachadh. How about a mountain gorilla with a machine gun? That’d be terrifying. Or a crocodile that knows Karate? Or the angry ghost of a Pterodacty?’

Phonc got up from his comfortable chair.

‘Fear of a blank page! Ye are both an embarrassment to the art form. Writer’s block is a made up thing’, he said.

Phonc then flounced out of the room.

Into nothing.

And ceased to exist.