‘But I can’t write a story!’ Gwen cries, scraping her chair backwards and folding her arms, as though the blank page might scald her.

I wave her pencil around like a wand. ‘What if I told you that this is an enchanted pencil?’

Her eyes widen but she purses her lips, willing herself not to smile. She’s still not sure.

I tilt it towards her. She twirls it between her fingers, examining it from all angles.

Something must convince her – the way the silver paint catches the light, perhaps – because she tucks her seat back under the desk and begins to write. She writes furiously, her tongue protruding and her fingers gripping the pencil so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

The story, when she reads it aloud to the class, is a magical tale of adventure. She beams proudly through the applause, and then says,

‘The magic pencil worked!’

I hold it up and frown theatrically.

‘Silly me!’ I laugh. ‘This isn’t the magic pencil. It looks like you didn’t need it after all.’