Their Unique skill:
Today was one of the few days Ignatius couldn’t write.
He was stuck. Stuck in the barriers that his own mind had built up, unable to think of anything.. It felt as if his creative juices had been wasted on yesterday’s writing, leaving him unable to write anything today. Even seated by his favorite window, he couldn’t break free.
Come on, he thought. Just start writing.
Ignatius gripped the pen in his paw tightly, lowering it to the blank page.
A few words blossomed from its tip, but they were soon scribbled out of existence. Ignatius growled in frustration. He dropped his pen, ripped the paper from his notebook, and crumpled it up into a ball. A moment later, it was thrown carelessly over his shoulder, joining the mountain of papers that had grown continuously over the course of the day.
Ignatius sighed. He was completely dry.
“Iggy?”
Ignatius looked up at the sound of the voice. Before him stood his mother, a black viscet with swirls of orange and red in her fur. She smiled broadly at him and sat in front of him. Ignatius managed to smile at her.
“How’s it going?” she asked kindly, looking down at his notebook.
Ignatius sighed.
“I’m not cut out to be an author,” he said miserably.
His mother frowned.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because everything I’ve written is rubbish,” he said ruefully. “Nothing sounds right. Everything seems forced, and lazy, and is nothing like what a published novel should be like. And,” he added. “I can’t even write. To be an author, you actually have to write.”
“I love your work!” said his mother.
“Yeah, you do,” said Ignatius. “But everyone else is going to hate it. At this rate, I’ll never be published.”
Ignatius closed his notebook. He stared down at it, biting his lip.
His mother placed a gentle paw on his shoulder.
“Iggy,” she said. “Look at me.”
Ignatius looked up from his notebook. His mother smiled kindly at him.
“You,” she said. “Are so talented. Everything you write is funny, creative, and true. Even on your bad days, you’ve been able to make me smile with your newest story.”
“But-“
“No buts,” said his mother, cutting him off. “They’re for sitting.” Ignatius giggled.
“I know you’re dissatisfied,” she said. “But you’ve been given a gift. You are able to make words come alive on the paper, and I don’t want to see you waste that gift.”
Ignatius nodded.
His mother got up from her seat and walked away from the window. As she neared the door, she paused. She turned back to Ignatius.
“And remember, Iggy,” she said. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I’m not building an empire,” said Ignatius. “I’m writing a book.”
His mother smiled.
“You know what I mean,” she said. She turned away, softly opening the door. Ignatius listened to her footsteps, until they faded away, leaving him in silence.
Ignatius closed his eyes, picturing a dam in his head. There was a narrow crack in it, with a slight trickle dripping from it. Opening his notebook, he smiled. The words sprang to the forefront of his mind, and he began to write.
Five years later, Ignatius sat at a table in a bookstore, gazing around at the crowd of viscets before him. The formed an eager line, all waiting their turn to meet their famous author.
It had been a struggle, but Ignatius had managed to write his first book. It had quickly become a favorite among the viscets of the world, spreading Ignatius’s fame. In the past year, Ignatius had been invited to three writing conferences to speak, visited hundreds of schools to meet with the children, and had attended over a dozen book signings. He cherished his time with his fans, and enjoyed how much they enjoyed his work.
“But it never would’ve come to be,” Ignatius would tell people later. “If it hadn’t been for my mother. She was my most avid reader. I’ll always remember her for the encouragement she gave, and the support she showed. I’ll never forget how she encouraged my writing and ow she always saw the best in me."