Tamara Elliot has writer’s block.
It’s so bad she swears she’ll never be able to write again unless she finds a replica of the tattered, well-loved notebook she always carries with her. Her career hinges on a visit to Creative Chaos Collective, in the hope she can finally finish her novel ahead of her publisher’s deadline.
If they have that notebook…
Tamara Elliot shifted the tote bag on her shoulder and pressed the blue button. The bus bell chimed, and she felt it begin to slow as it approached her stop. The sun was warm but not yet biting as she tapped her card and stepped onto the street, taking shade under a tree to fish her phone out of her bag.
Sydney’s Inner West in summer was lively, especially on a Saturday morning. Couples walked by with their dogs towards the markets, while groups of families and friends enjoyed brunch at the tables that spilled out of trendy cafes.
“Where is it?” Tarama grumbled, hand searching blindly in her bag. “Ah.” Flicking to the maps app she typed in Creative Chaos Collective and started down the street. She’d come across a feature on the place in a writer’s magazine months ago, but now she prayed it held the answer to her problem.
She was in desperate need of a notebook. A specific notebook. One that, so far, had been impossible to locate.
After several turns her phone beeped, sending her down a brick walled alley decorated in street art. Impressionist bursts of native bottlebrush and eucalyptus were bright in the morning sun, illuminating the path.
“This must be it,” Tamara exhaled, feeling a little calmer. She checked the time. “They should be open by now.” She adjusted her bag, tucking the laptop within it safely under her arm and pressed on down the alley.
Moments later she found herself in front of a converted warehouse, it’s lemon-yellow door stark against the dulled red brick and corrugate metal roof. Part of the brick wall had been knocked out and replaced with an inviting window, framed with window boxes spilling over with marigolds and camomile. Behind the glass a woman in a pale blue apron stood pottering at a counter. Tamara looked to her left at the hand painted sign beside the door. Creative Chaos Collective was written in bold, bright letters against the timber swinging gently in the breeze. From the bottom of the sign hung a second, smaller wooden sign.
Open.
A small bell chimed as Tamara opened the door.
“Hello. Welcome to triple C, how can I help you today?” the woman behind the counter beamed. Her round face offered a warm smile that pushed her electric blue glasses up slightly, her chestnut hair twisted into a messy bun on top her head. She looked about thirty, wearing a funky patterned dress under her blue apron. Embroidered on the top right side was the name Emily in cursive.
“Er, hello,” Tamara replied. “I’ll just browse thanks.”
“Not a problem,” Emily chirped, adjusting the stack of discounted notebooks on the counter. “Let me know you need anything.”
Tamara nodded and began wandering around the store. The old warehouse had been beautifully converted into a haven for creatives. According to the article she read, the owner had wanted to create a space that welcomed artists of all kinds and all abilities. As such the shop had been design with rows of shoulder height shelving, sections labelled with hand painted wooden signs; paint, paper, sheet music, canvas, film, cameras, books… the list went on and on as Tamara gazed around the large warehouse. Up the back she saw the shelves gave away to an open workroom. And the smell! The sweetness of uncovered paper, alongside the headiness of lacquered wood.
Then she spotted the sign that said Notebooks and made a bee line for it. Standing in front of the huge array of notebooks, Tamara bent down awkwardly and took her tote bag off her shoulder. Riffling through the bag she pushed away her laptop, a packet of tissues, various markers and pens, until she found the small notebook she’d brought with her.
Holding it in her hands, she sighed heavily, fingers brushing over the well-worn leather with embossed letters that read Patrick. The paper was tattered and yellowed from decades of reading and writing, her brother’s hand distinct in his scribbled down stories. Tears threatened to hold her hostage, but she bit her bottom lip, determined not to cry in the middle of the shop. She didn’t want to be that pregnant lady. Tamara pinched her cheeks and took a deep breath.
Gazing at the numerous notebooks on the shelf, she carefully began inspecting anything that looked similar to the one she was holding. She’d already been to three other stationery shops in the last week trying to locate a replica, but with no luck. Her eyes flicked over to Emily who was busy restocking oil paints. She should just ask, but she didn’t feel much like talking. Didn’t feel much like anything at present. Other than the occasional outburst of tears.
Part of her still felt numb, processing the fact her brother had passed away and this notebook, this scribbled collection of stories with in, was her last connection to him. A time capsule of their childhood. They’d both loved writing as children, telling each other stories and creating adventures out of the smallest things. It was funny, Tamara thought, growing up everyone always thought Patrick would become the writer within the family, not her.
But Patrick had only ever written for fun, for his passions lied elsewhere. Yet Tamara had taken to the page with fervour, and in the last three years had published two novels. Her third book, however, still sat unfinished on her laptop, with a deadline looming in a month. The thought of it sat like a cold, sharp lump in her stomach. She hadn’t been able to open it since her brother’s untimely death two months ago.
“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” Emily asked gently, appearing beside her. She nodded to the well-worn notebook in Tamara’s hand.
Tamara gave her a small smile, forcing herself to focus on the present. “Yes, actually. I’m trying to find this exact notebook. Though I haven’t had much luck.”
“May I?” Emily asked, gesturing to the notebook.
“Oh, um, of course,” Tamara stumbled, “do you know this brand?”
Emily turned it over, examining the cover and feel of the paper. “I do recognise it, it’s such good quality leather,” she mused. “It is a design that hasn’t been sold in a while though. I think they discontinued it.”
Tamara’s face fell. She could feel the threat of tears surging close to the surface. It was a hopeless and foolish endeavour, she chastised herself. What made her think anyone would still stock a notebook that was over thirty years old?
“Not to say we might not have some dead stock lying around,” Emily continued, sensing the devastation radiating off her customer. “If you don’t mind waiting, I will have a look in our storeroom.”
“I can wait,” Tarama breathed shakily. “I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.”
Emily disappeared, leaving Tamara to wander around the shop absent-mindedly. Her hand drifted to her belly, rubbing it gently. She hadn’t done much this morning, but this outing had already exhausted. Spotting a stool near the front counter, she made herself comfortable while she waited. I wonder if it will be a boy or a girl, she thought.
She said a silent prayer that Emily would have the notebook. The desperation she was starting feel in her search for it had moved on from foolish to a miserable obsession. Tamara had tried to go back to the old pen and paper to break her writer’s block, had tried countless notebooks, but nothing had helped to get words on a page or treat the anxiety of her rapidly approaching deadline. She’d already asked for several extensions, but this one could not be missed. In her head, like some kind of talisman or protective charm, only having a copy of this specific notebook would help her finish this book she could not bring herself to write. The thought had driven her to search all over Sydney for it.
The original, a simple leather-bound notebook, had been a gift her parents had given to Patrick when he turned thirteen. They’d gotten it embossed with his name, and from that day onward he’d always kept it on him in case the need to write struck.
“Found it!” Emily’s voice rang out across the warehouse. “Sorry, that took so long.” With that, she presented the notebook wrapped in plastic to Tamara. She burst into tears, startling Emily. “Oh. Oh, no, what’s wrong?” the store owner fussed, grabbing a box of tissues and handing them to the woman.
“This is so embarrassing, I’m so sorry,” Tamara huffed between sniffles.
Emily patted her on the shoulder, “Don’t be. What’s your name?”
“Tamara. Tamara Elliot,” she replied, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
Emily’s brows knitted together. “Where have a I heard that name before?” she muttered aloud. “Oh, did you write that wonderful book Bitter Sun?”
Tamara nodded, wiping away her tears. “I did.”
Emily beamed. “It was fantastic, I loved how real and earnest the characters were,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’m Emily Harris, owner of triple C. Now, can I ask what has brought you to tears? It seems this notebook means a lot to you.”
Tamara exhaled. She held both notebooks in her hands, a yearning crushing her heart. “This one belonged to my brother. He died two months ago unexpectedly and left it to me. It’s full of the stories he wrote when we were kids. He used to read them to me before bed. Then he would read them to my daughter. It occurred to me just now my second child will never get to hear him tell these stories.”
Emily offered her condolences. “It sounds like writing ran in your family then. What do you want to do with the new notebook?”
Tamara put away her brother’s notebook and examined the new one. “It seems silly, but I was hoping having one of my own would help me finish writing my new book. I haven’t been able to write a thing in weeks and my publisher needs pages asap.” She paused, trying to stifle tears as she breathed several deep breaths.
What she couldn’t bring herself to voice was that her late brother’s death was hauntingly similar to the character death she’d written only a matter of days before he died. Patrick’s car was hit by truck on a rural mountain road. He’d died instantly. She couldn’t escape the demon on her shoulder telling her that Patrick had died because of what she wrote, even if she could rationalise that it was a tragic coincidence.
“Patrick always said with a quality notebook you just feel compelled to write in it,” she sniffled, “fill it with stories and tales of adventure. I am hoping that will be true for me. He was never without it.”
“I see,” Emily nodded in agreement. “A good notebook can be an incredible writer’s tool.”
“Only now that I have it, what if I still can’t write?” Tamara said quietly, fighting back new tears that threatened to overwhelm her. What if she could never write again a voice in the back of her head whispered.
“Have you tried writing something unrelated to your novel?” Emily asked. If it was her novel that was the problem maybe it was best to start elsewhere.
Tamara stared at the shop owner. It was such a simple idea, and yet it had not occurred to her amongst her grief and anxiety. “I haven’t.”
“If you’d like, you’re welcome to use our workroom for a while. I read somewhere a change of scenery can sometimes help with writer’s block too. I don’t have a class in there until after three,” Emily offered, gesturing the space at the back of the warehouse.
Tamara looked over her shoulder at the sunlit room. It did look inviting. Perhaps it was worth a try. Nothing else had worked for her. “Are you sure it’s not a bother?”
“Not at all,” Emily hummed, “though you’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”
“No,” Tamara puzzled. She hadn’t seen a dog at all since she’d entered the shop.
“Great. My dog Margs is sleeping in the sun under the window in the workroom. She won’t bother you though. She’s getting on in her years so mostly lays about.” With that Emily showed Tamara to the workroom.
The space was slightly raised from the main shop floor, timber flooring marking a large square area used for classes and workshops. Along the left wall were various cabinets, lockers and storage. A mismatched collection of new and vintage. Along the right wall was a small makeshift gallery wall of class paintings, two stacks of chairs and folding tables tucked in a corner. By the back windows near some tables and chairs that looked like they almost never moved, was an elderly golden retriever basking in the morning sunlight. Margs lifted her head momentarily as the two women entered the space, then went back to napping.
“You can use this table if you’d like.” It was a beautiful yet simple antique wooden table with a charming oak chair and a robin’s egg coloured cushion. The table was well loved and well used from all the scuff marks and indentations of countless hands making and creating on it.
Tamara ran her hand along the edge. “Thank you.” She popped down her tote bag beside her and laid out the two notebooks side by side. “Oh, I haven’t paid you for this one yet.”
Emily waved her hand, “We’ll sort it out after. I’ll leave you to write.”
Tamara nodded in thanks then stared at the notebook. Carefully she removed the plastic packaging, running her hand over the leather cover. From within her tote bag, she fetched her favourite gel ink black pen and wrote her name and the date on the first page. When it dried, she turned to the next page, her pen hovering over the paper unable to put down a single word. What do I write, she thought, where do I even start? She looked at her brother’s notebook.
Emily returned quietly with a cup of camomile tea and a small plate of homemade shortbread biscuits. “I thought you might enjoy some refreshments while you wrote.”
“Oh, thank you,” Tamara sighed, eagerly taking the tea to avoid looking at the blank page.
Sensing her discomfort, Emily fished out a small piece of paper from her pocket. “You know, we have a writing group that meets here semi-regularly. Last weekend they did several writing exercises, perhaps you could try one of these to take the pressure of coming up with an idea from scratch.” She handed Tamara a small slip of paper. “They left a few on the table so I collected them up.” On it was printed several short exercises. The first said write 500 words about something you can see in the room in a genre or style you never write in.
“Anyway, I will leave you to it,” Emily offered a kind smile, “if you need anything just find me at the counter.”
Tamara thanked her once again as she departed, leaving her alone with the writing exercise. “What I see in the room, huh?” she muttered. She gazed around, searching for inspiration. There was the furniture, flecks of paint on the floors, some interesting landscapes on the walls, several half-finished craft activities on a shelf. None of it struck her though as something to write 500 words about it.
Margs stirred, slowly stretching and rising to stand before pawing over to Tamara’s table. She wobbled a little as she walked. Giving the air a quick sniff, Margs was hoping for a biscuit crumb to magically fall her way. Tamara huffed a small laugh, patting the dog on the head.
“I’m not sure your mum would like you eating biscuits. But I’ll give you a small bit.” She broke a little piece off and gave it to the elderly dog. Margs then sat happily beside Tamara, tail wagging slowly as her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. She rested her head on Tamara’s lap.
“You’re a good dog,” she said softly, absent mindedly giving her head scratches while she stared about the room. She took a long sip of her tea then picked the pen back up. “What if I write about you? Huh? Would you like that?” she spoke to Margs in a soft voice. “What adventures did you get up to as a pup?”
She thought of her own child then, and the second growing in her stomach. Such a loud ruckus her daughter made; life was never dull even if it was trying at times. But she had loved watching her absorb the books and stories told at bedtime. Whenever Tamara read to her, she was reminded of her big brother reading to her when she was little girl.
“Shall I write a children’s story then Margs?” she asked the slow-moving dog. Margs gave a small bark, licked Tamara’s wrist, then went back to the expanse of timber floor heated by the sun to sleep.
With Margs’ approval Tamara put her first sentence to paper in a very long time.
In the afternoon sun a blur of gold broke through the neighbour’s fence and crashed into nanna’s roses.
She smiled tentatively to herself as the ink dried. I wrote something, she mused, it’s only a sentence, but it’s a start. Tamara sipped her tea and nibbled on the shortbread.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, the biscuit melting in her mouth and softening her troubles a little. Margs gave a small ruff in agreeance. Though, she may have been dreaming, it was hard to tell.
Twisting the pen in her hand Tamara considered how to continue. After a few minutes she wrote another sentence. Then another. She turned to the elderly dog and asked her what she thought of them. Margs wagged her tail and rolled over. “Alright then,” Tarama smiled timidly.
She continued to take long pauses, staring at the page or across the shop while words rolled around her mind. It was turning out to be a rather silly little story about a puppy running amuck in a garden, but with each letter, each word committed to the fine paper of the leather notebook she felt an easing in her heart and mind.
She was a writer. Just like her brother. And he would have loved a silly story about a pup in a garden.
Sipping on her tea in the quiet of the workroom Tamara soon finished the tale, having scribbled lines across several pages. She even drew a quick sketch of Margs sunbathing and dated it. Smiling at the small achievement, it felt like conquering a mountain. It did not cure her grief, for there was no such thing, but it sat differently within her.
Stories were a gift to hold onto. And the ones she’d been lucky to share with her brother were true treasures. Tamara clutched both notebooks to her chest. “I miss you,” she whispered. “I hope you’re still telling stories wherever you are.”
Finished with the story she’d written, she popped the notebooks away in her bag and found her phone. She’d been sitting there for a little over an hour. Emily had said there would be no one else using the room for a while and feeling a gentle confidence from her short story exercise, Tamara pulled out her laptop.
Margs rose from where she lay and plonked herself at Tamara’s feet. She stifled a small chuckle, “You are rather perceptive aren’t you?” She sighed heavily but opened her laptop. “Thank you,” she whispered to the golden retriever, giving her a scratch behind the ears.
Opening the manuscript she hadn’t looked at in months, Tamara gingerly began to type. The first sentence took agonisingly long, almost thirty minutes to find its form. She hated every word of it. It was clunky, void of any flow or rhythm. It was like her writing voice had atrophied and she was blindly feeling her way back to life, warily flexing muscles long unused.
Emily quietly brought more tea and biscuits when she noticed the laptop had made an appearance. Margs got a proper dog treat too, chewing it happily under the table.
The first sentence was hard. The second was harder. But by the time she wrote the third, her brain had begun to reconnect with her fingers, her imagination rekindling slowly. The paragraph was torturous but when she reached the end of it, she felt a small growing sense of pride.
Tamara sat for two more hours, slowly tinkering away at her novel. She perhaps spent more time thinking and less time typing but she was progressing. Now that she’d started her deadline still felt difficult to meet, but a little less overwhelming.
“How did it go?” Emily asked as she cleared away the snacks while Tamara packed up her laptop.
Tamara stood, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Good. I think. Thank you for letting me sit here for so long. I think the change of environment helped. I managed to write a few pages.”
“That’s great news,” Emily replied with a wide smile. “A little each day adds up to lot very quickly.”
“I’m so glad you found the notebook,” Tamara continued, “I wrote a little story, from the prompt you gave me. I think I am going to try and do something like that more often as a warmup. I want to fill it with stories for my kids like my brother wrote for us when we were children.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Emily agreed. “I love reading stories to my nieces. Their little giggles are like liquid sunshine.”
Tamara nodded, then turned to the dog who’d come to join them, tail wagging gently behind her. “And thank you too, Margs. Couldn’t have done it without you as well.” The dog barked softly, butting her head into Tamara’s leg affectionately. She gave her a quick scratch behind the ears.
“Well, I best be off,” Tamara said, pulling her wallet out of her bag, “how much do I owe you?”
Emily gestured Tamara to the front counter while she quickly deposited the cup and biscuit plate in the hidden kitchen near the register. “Alright, so the notebook was dead stock, so it’s only $15,” she hummed, manually typing it into the register.
“Is that all?” Tamara replied, surprised at the price for the quality of the notebook. “Are you sure?”
“Yep,” Emily nodded, “we only have a couple left and they likely won’t sell. I’d be happy to give you the rest of them for a discount if you’d like. There’s three more in the storeroom.”
“Can I? That would be wonderful, thank you,” she replied eagerly. The thought of having spares made her excited to fill them with all the silly stories she could imagine. Emily returned with the extra notebooks and packaged them all up. “What do I owe you for the drinks too?”
Emily waved her hand, “Nothing, those were on the house.”
“Surely not,” Tamara tutted. “I am happy to pay for it.”
Emily smiled but refused. “It’s not necessary. I’m just glad you were able to write again. I look forward to reading your next book when it’s done.”
Tamara paid for her notebooks, popping them in her tote bag. “Well, I appreciate it deeply. You have no idea. I didn’t think I’d be able to do what I did today ever again.”
“Sometimes we just need a fresh perspective,” Emily hummed. “I hope you’ll visit us again sometime.”
“I will,” Tamara replied with a warm smile. “See you next time.” With that she gave the woman behind the counter a brief wave and left the Creative Chaos Collective.
The sun was hot, practically baking, as she walked down the alley. Sweat quickly beaded on her brow. The summer weather was in full force now. But despite the almost oppressive heat Tamara felt lighter with every step she took towards home.
Emily Harris turned down the lane to her shop, Creative Chaos Collective, Margs plodding along at her usual slow pace beside her. She gave the aging golden retriever a gentle head scratch. “Almost there, old girl,” she said affectionately. Triple C was a haven, a home away from home for creative people of any inclination. At least that was the vision Emily had, and she had done pretty well so far to create it. She loved walking to work each morning from her small Inner West apartment. Plus getting Margs on a daily walk was good for her joints.
The lemon-yellow door greeted her along with the scene of marigolds and camomile growing in the window beds. A few were looking a little thirsty. Summer always required extra watering, and since the sun was yet to directly hit the flowers, Emily made note to do it as soon as she’d settled Margs in. The dog sniffed eagerly at the front door, ready to find her way to her usual spot, the sunny back window of the workroom.
“If you’ll give me a minute to find my keys, I’ll let you in your majesty,” Emily laughed, fishing them out of her handbag. The heart shaped keyring with Margs’ face on it clinked against the wood as she unlocked the door. Margs pulled on her lead gently, yet keenly, tugging Emily through the door. “If you would sit, I’ll take the lead off you.” Margs sat, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as her tail swished back and forth. The moment she was free she toddled past the shelves, up the two steps to the workroom, and plonked herself by the rear window to sunbathe.
“Never change pup,” Emily chuckled as she closed the front door behind her. It was just before nine, which gave her about thirty minutes to get set up for the day. Remembering the flowers she fetched some water, giving them a good drenching ahead of the thirty-seven-degree day. The air was already humid and warm. She’d need to run the fans on high today she thought, perhaps use the portable aircon in the workroom too for this afternoon’s class.
Time passed quickly as she busied herself readying the shop. She put cash in the till, straightened the displays, restocked inventory and printed the posters for their upcoming open mic night. With a cup of camomile tea and strawberry jam crumpets, she tinkered away on her computer putting through new orders and shooting off emails to class instructors. When the clock finally reached nine thirty Emily grabbed the small wooden sign that said open, opened the front door and hung it outside. Grabbing a small A frame sign that she’d made yesterday she wandered down the alley and placed it near the footpath of the main street.
As she walked back up the alley to the shop, she noticed the postie pulling up on his motorcycle, digging around the mail bags.
“Morning Steve,” she called out with a wave. “Warm one isn’t it?”
Steve gave her a large toothy grin. “Mornin’ Em. Sure gunna be a scorcher.” He found what he was looking for. “Just a small parcel for you today,” he said, handing her a thick registered post padded mailer.
“Thanks. Stay hydrated today,” she replied, signing for it before going inside. Perched on at the front counter on her stool she took a bite of her second crumpet and examined the parcel. Her name had been written on the front in beautiful handwriting. Turning it over she smiled at the sender’s name.
She opened the parcel, pulling out the contents. There was a letter, a small handmade notebook, and a spiral bound reem of paper. Emily opened the letter first.
Dear Emily,
I wanted to thank you again for your kindness and help, both with finding the notebook and getting me to write again. I was afraid I’d never be able to do either.
I didn’t quite meet my deadline, but I was able to get pretty close. I wanted to give this to you in person, but I am afraid morning sickness and the heat has me stuck at home of late. It’s not yet been edited by my publisher, so it’s a very rough draft, but I wanted to thank you for your support.
I hope you enjoy the story.
Tamara
Emily excitedly examined the rest of the parcel. The small notebook was actually a handmade copy of a children’s story, with the illustration Tamara made of Margs on the cover. The spiral bound reem of paper was a manuscript. The manuscript she had been trying to finish just over a month ago when she sat in Emily’s workroom.
Emily grinned as she picked it up, honoured to be able to read it. She quickly put on the kettle to make a fresh cup of tea, grabbed a few biscuits and settled herself at the counter. She had a list of things she should’ve been doing but being the owner had its perks. They could wait a few hours.
A good book took precedent.
Summer at the Creative Chaos Collective: A Tattered Notebook by Catherine Gunther. First published here on December 1st, 2025.