Page 57 of Fraud
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, I’ve been sitting here, in front of a blank screen, for hours, and I’ve got nothing. Nothing!” My voice increased in volume, resembling something like that of a new mother who hadn’t slept in weeks.
“That’s not writer’s block,” she said calmly.
“What?” I nearly screamed. “What do you mean, that’s not writer’s block? It’s a textbook definition.”
Again, she replied in that annoyingly calm voice, like she was placating a rogue toddler, “I can guarantee you, it’s not.”
“Oh, and who made you an expert on the topic?”
“Several best-selling authors,” she replied.
I had no witty comeback to that statement.
“Writer’s block,truewriter’s block, is like a virus or a sickness. It’s not something that happens in a night. It happens over a long span of time.”
“So, you’re telling me that I could be screwed for days?”
“No, I’m telling you that, if you did in fact have writer’s block, you could be screwed for weeks.”
My mouth felt dry as it fell open in disbelief.
“But I don’t think you actually have it. I think you’re just psyching yourself out.”
“Psyching myself out?”
“You’re not used to writing on a deadline, are you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I replied.
“It’s an adjustment. Your first two novels weren’t written on a schedule. You wrote those at your own pace. And, now, this third book has a time line, and it’s constantly in the back of your mind.”
What she had said actually seemed kind of true.
Even though I didn’t want to admit it.
“Does that make sense?” she asked when I failed to respond.
“Yes,” I answered.
“So, talk it out with me.”
“What?”
“The scene,” she clarified. “Talk it out with me, and hopefully, it will get you going and me back to sleep.”
My lips pursed together as I took a glance in the direction of my computer.
“Are you going to speak? Seriously, Kate, I’m wasting precious beauty sleep here.”
“It’s …the scene I’m working on…”
“Yes?”
“It’s a sex scene.”
“Okay. And?”
