A Tale of a Toy Box
The apartment of a young Mr. Ronald Ford was, at first glance, an average, if not abnormally well-kept, residence. It contained all of the typical furnishings: a slightly behind-the-times television; a bookcase filled to the top with books, most of which its owner had never read and probably never would; a small, square dining table; a polished countertop topped with a bowl of apples that were now not as fresh as when they had been bought, but still waited invitingly.
The one thing that really stood out was the corner farthest from the door. It contained a large wooden writing desk, covered with scattered papers, folders, binders, and various writing utensils. A wastepaper basket stood beside it, overflowing with crumpled papers, emptied pens, and pencils that had been sharpened right down to the eraser. The wall around the desk was plastered with closely-written notebook pages and miscellaneous illustrations. Ronald Ford, who sat at the desk, fit in well with this corner. His hair stuck out in all directions, there were dark circles under eyes, and he was still wearing the clothes he had first put on two days ago.
Ronald ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and gazed down at the blank sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Ronald Ford was an author-well, soon to be one, anyway. Writing had always been his hobby. Even back when he was a kid, while other boys were playing football or baseball or joining the school band, he was content staying inside with an empty notebook and a pen. He had even majored in writing in college, along with, due to his parents' encouragement, a minor in journalism.
It wasn't until after college that his passion had turned his back on him. He had decided to keep the part-time job he had worked all through college, and make writing fiction his main money-maker. His professor had encouraged him to get a job on a newspaper or magazine first. But no, Ronald had preferred stories made up from his own mind to the mundane articles in the local paper that dealt only with reality.
Now here he was, one year since college, working tirelessly at his desk, barely making the rent every month. He had cursed his stupidity on regular basis as of late, graduating college with the delusion of publishing a best-selling novel immediately. He had never even taken the time to anticipate writer's block.
Ronald had dived into the story he was writing with the utmost confidence. He had been inspired by an article he had come across while perusing the magazines in the checkout line of the grocery store; it dealt with jewel-smuggling. Apparently, a large number people had attempted to smuggle some ill-obtained Chrome Diopside into the States to sell. The method they had used was disappointingly simple, and they never actually got the jewels into the country, but Ronald liked the idea.
He had made the peridots-Ronald's gem of choice-the central conflict of his novel. He was extremely satisfied with his story thus far; he had created and analyzed all his characters already, and written several chapters in varying order. He was rather proud of the method he had used for his heroine to bring the gems into the country, but now he was facing the question he hadn't even thought important: Where was she going to hide the jewels?
Ronald sighed with frustration. Naturally, his character couldn't keep the gems on her at all times, or in any spot that would be noticed if one was to conduct an exhaustive search for it. The most frustrating thing about the situation was that it couldn't be realistic. If he himself were in the position of having to hide stolen jewels, he would probably bury them somewhere that he and he only would remember, and of course no one would suspect a thing. But that was dull. He remembered reading certain books as a kid, and suffering a disappointment when characters acted exactly as he had expected them to. No, if he wanted this book to be enjoyed by its readers, not to mention critics, he would have to think of somewhere clever.
