Writer’s Block

It’s my publisher again. I have ignored four calls and 12 WhatsApp messages from her in the past 24 hours. I was supposed to hand in the final draft of my latest novel two days ago. And, I still haven’t. The funny thing is that it has been sitting, almost ready, on my desk for over a week. I just have to decide, what to do with Muggins.

You see, Muggins is the key character in my murder mystery. He is a non-descript gardener in a quiet English village. He is gentle, polite and never speaks out of turn. He keeps his sparse hair in a combover across his balding pate, wears thick glasses and walks with an almost apologetic shuffling gait. People wouldn’t even notice he was there till he coughed. It was a habitual rasping cough, which made the young boys of the village call him Mr Coughins!

But, Muggins is a killer. A ruthless, cold-hearted beast who murders old ladies for no apparent reason. Now, I won’t give away the entire plot, since I want you to buy my book. All you need to know is that Muggins is a villain and I have to take a decision on whether to have him killed by the police, or let him escape to reappear in some sequel, like a latter-day Moriarty. I am sure, old Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t have to much sleep over it.

But, then, the criminals Sherlock Holmes caught didn’t come alive. The villains of my novels do. I know, you will find it impossible to believe. I didn’t believe it the first time it happened. It was right after my first novel, The Case of the Dead Dancers.

If you have read it, you would know that the story, set in the colonial period, revolves around the multiple murders of Bharat Natyam dancers in Chennai. My detective, Miss Molly Wright, manages to unravel the mystery from the traces of talcum powder found on the victims. The murder turns out to be Chandrababu, a tabla-player who was often seen accompanying classical dancers on stage. Chandrababu’s sister was a talented dancer who had killed herself because she couldn’t make it as a performer. In a bout of spite, the brother went about killing famous dancers. His talcum powder, that he used to lubricate his tabla, gave him away.

That was my first story. So, you can imagine my surprise when I read in the papers that two Bharat Natyam dancers had been killed and talcum powder had been found on their bodies. The police arrested their tabla-player for the murders. And, his name was Chandrababu! The 70-year old man had committed similar murders in the 1940s and had spent 25 years in prison. What is even more spine-chilling is that the Chandrababu confessed that he had killed to avenge his sister’s suicide. My character had come alive.

The exact same thing happened, after my second murder mystery was released. Similar real-life murders took place within a week. The modus-operandi was the same, and the murderers name and motive was identical to my story. Villain No.2 had also come alive.

You can, now, understand why I am so scared of finishing my latest novel. If I let Muggins escape, or even be sent to prison, he will definitely turn into a real-life person and commit the murders that have taken place in my imaginary English village. On the other hand, I don’t want to kill a living human being, even if he is just a person made of ink and paper.

As I sat in my dimly lit study, thinking about how to resolve my dilemma, the doorbell rang. My publisher had clearly decided that enough was enough and turned up in person. She must be really annoyed that she made the trip to my home so late at night.

As I turned the lock and opened the door, I began preparing a speech on why I had been avoiding her all these days. But, it wasn’t she who stood at my doorstep. It was an oldish man, who I didn’t recognise. Yet, he looked oddly familiar.

“Hello,” he said in a soft meek fashion as he blinked at me through his thick lenses.

And then he coughed. A loud rasping cough….