Trafford Publishing: Writers Block

Here is the full reference card for this book...

If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Writers Block

by Ricky Sedani

268 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0037; ISBN 1-55395-674-5; US$18.50, C$21.99, EUR15.50, £11.00

A story for anyone who has ever been dumped.

Read more!

about the book about the author sample excerpt catalogue info

About the Book

Meet Vinny Thomas. Happy living in Dublin with his wife, Claire, and daughter, Emily. Vinny had the perfect job and the perfect life until it all began to disappear. Claire has found someone else and she is taking Emily with her.
Now Vinny must leave the paradise he has lost and find himself. He embarks on a journey that will lead him to the city of London, his new home. To find closure he begins to write and eventually meets Kate.
Will Vinny ever finish his book? And can he give love a second chance?
Ricky Sedani's captivating novel is about love, ambition, redemption, friendship and real human emotion.

About the Author

Ricky Sedani was born in London in the spring of 1983. He has lived in the town of Kettering for the majority of his life. He is co-owner of the family coffe business. Currently, he is undertaking a degree in English and Drama at Cambridge.

Sample Excerpt - Prologue

I used to love Christmas. The excitement, the thrill, the food, the presents and the grandest fixation of them all, television. But thing have changed in the new Millennium. We are no longer young, the thrill has been passed down, the food makes us fat, the presents are now clothes and the most unpleasant of all the synonym of the 25th December is that television has become boring. My generation is sick of watching the same films every year.We have become weary of the same 'Only Fools and Horses' Christmas specials and most of all, we are distraught to find that year after year nothing changes. We still watch 'The Jewel ofthe Nile,' and the Queen's speech and feel contented.
I could hear Emily crying in the distant background. The room seemed to grow colder. It was like there was a spiritual presence in the room, hovering over me. The doorbell rang. I ignored it; my head was comfortable resting on the arm of the sofa. The doorbell interrupted my deep concentration again.
'What?!'I yelled at the door hoping that whatever disturbance would disappear.
'Taxi,' the response meant that I had to move from my deeply comfortable position. I opened the door and sat back down. 'Vinny!Is that for me?' Her accent is what drew me to her in the first place. I remained quiet. I did not have the energy to speak. I sat waiting. Waiting. I was transfixed with the painting, which hung on the wall that we bought together. Cheesy yet artistic. The painting was in black and white. A little boy dressed as if he was going to a board meeting giving a rose to a little girl who looked like a child actor from the fifties. The rose was the only element of the picture that stood out. And then, suddenly, as if I had been woken up,
'I 'll be out in a minute,' she ordered as the taxi driver already confined himself to his car and occupied himself with the car radio. She looked at me. She had these deep green eyes, soft, silky black hair and a smile that would break down any man onto his knees and cry. I hated that.
'What about the picture?' I questioned as if I was one of her students.
'Keep it,' she said this without even moving her lips. 'You knew this was going to happen. It can't be that much of a shock. Vinny, look at me, its better this way.' She paused.'Emily!'She yelled.
I hated when Claire shouted at her. I lied; I hated the fact that she was not going to yell at me anymore. 'This is the last of my things. I'll call you when I get myself sorted and you can pick up Emily for the weekend. Emily entered the room in her Scooby Doo pyjamas that she insisted that I buy her.
She walked over to her mother. 'Go and give Daddy a big kiss.' Claire instructed her. I felt like crying. I couldn't. Emily looked at me as if it was I that was going away. I did not want my beautiful daughter to think that her old man was a wimp. And I did not want her to cry.
I held her close. My daughter. She is going to hate me in about twelve year's time but at this moment in time that consequence was of no importance. I promised her McDonalds at the weekend and after some deliberation, she ran back to her mother. Emily tood at the doorstep looking at the Taxi.
'I'm leaving. Call me before you pick Emily up. Is that okay?' She quietly uttered as she gathered her things.' I decided I was going to ignore her. There was a silence.'Give me an answer! For Christ 's sake! Stop being childish.' And then she left.
Without regret, without remorse, without looking back, she was gone. Both of them. I again rested my head against the arm of the sofa and curled my leg up. It was like in the movies. I felt like I was in a waiting room. The feeling of illness and boredom culminated in my stomach.
I looked around the empty house. The immense dark blue walls, the colossal and somewhat unnerving black and white framed pictures and my sofa. I am not a materialistic person but I believe it is a basic human right to have a sofa. I tried to sleep but could not. There were too many thing going on in my head. I stared at the picture again. The reason the rose stood out was because it was the only object in the picture that was in colour. I named the rose Emily.
The cold wooden floor was covered with a thin light hand woven cream rug. Claire had an infatuation with thing from Ikea. Or was it Habitat? I cannot remember. I do not care. I am now alone. By myself. After careful deliberation, I decided to reach over and get the remote. Television will numb my mind. I watched all the crap they usually show every Boxing Day.
It was not a white Christmas. It was a lonely, cold wet Christmas. Tinsel covered tree stood at the corner ofthe living room. I did not get the flashing lights because, well, they annoy me. Claire wanted a real tree. Subsequently, Emily wanted a chocolate tree. I spent my day off buying, decorating and marvelling at that tree. It was beautiful. I spent the afternoon watching Christmas special after Christmas special. I stared at the programmes that were not good enough to be put on Christmas day but instead the day afterwards.
I began to contemplate the theory of Christmas but eventually got bored and thought about what the people I knew were doing at this very minute. Eating leftovers, drinking sherry and laughing. I then began to think of what the people I disliked were doing at this very minute. I began to loathe myself.
The concept of Boxing Day is bizarre. It is supposed to be a day in which the family relaxes after a hectic and stressful Christmas. I cannot remember a single Boxing Day where that has happened. Every Boxing Day with my parents ended with a fight. Not a fistfight, instead verbal, but still as vicious. To be lonely is unfortunate but to be lonely on Boxing Day is simply lucky.
I convinced myself that my own profound thoughts were correct in my mind and therefore decided to eat. I cannot cook. There are two types of people; 'cookers', who like to cook and 'orderers', who like to eat pizza. Pizza is my world and I am king of the 'orderers'. I do not know whether it was the knowledge of knowing that someone is giving up their Boxing Day to deliver pizza to me or the fact that I have just lit a cigarette but my hunger had subsided.
This was the first time I had smoked in the house. Claire used to smoke before Emily was born and she just stopped. She also concluded that because she had stopped, I had done as well. I had absolutely no say in the matter. The only problem was that I am not as strong willed a she is. I am not good at anything compared to her. I began to hide. I smoked at work, when I was in the pub and late at night, I would stand outside the house while Claire and Emily were in bed. It was like being fifteen again.
I sat patiently for my dinner.A few minutes later, I stood to get my self a drink. There were four cans of beer in the fridge. I had also hidden a bottle of brandy in my closet for a rainy day. Today it was pouring. I had everything a growing boy needs, alcohol, cigarettes, pizza (arriving soon), and television. For the first time in my five years of marriage, I had become myself again. It is depressing being me.
It was then that I realised that I needed her. I am a woman dependant male. A friend once told me that a break up is like mourning a death. Not the death of your partner, but the death of your relationship with your partner. You go through three stages.
Stage One: Denial. This is the initial reaction. You are in shock and you cannot and will not concede to the truth. Stage Two: Depression. You get to the stage where you lose control and eventually, it can lead to despair. Stage Three: Acceptance. And then you move on.
I convinced myself that I was in stage three. Who am I trying to fool? I am the king of stage one. I am beginning to like stage one because I know eventually, I am going to have to venture into stage three. I was concocting plans to skip stage two and suddenly the doorbell rang.
Food. Wonderful food. The king of stage one was to eat his royally prepared banquet of pizza and rule his kingdom of loneliness. I am too engrossed to think. I changed the channel to wrestling. Another no-no on Claire's list of things that I am not allowed to do. Three hours of non-stop world wrestling action. I digress.
The fun stops and I had become drunk. I decide to sleep on the sofa. My sofa.

Catalogue Information