Page 57 of Story of My Life
What if I couldn’t do it? What if putting words on the page was a physical impossibility for me now? It happened to people. Some authors never recovered from their own personal “dark night of the soul.” They went back to being regular people who had to get real jobs that required time cards and pants and meetings that could have been emails.
I wasn’t cut out for that.
“So we need a car. We can’t live out here and depend on the kindness of sexy, grumpy strangers to get us around,” Zoey announced, pulling me from my inner whinings.
I scraped a hand through my clean hair. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. I’ll contact the rental company and see when I can get a new one.”
Zoey shook her head vehemently. “No way. First of all, no rental company is going to insure you after yesterday’s convertible mangling.”
“A bald eagle hit me in the head with a fish. Why does everyone keep acting like it’s my fault?”
“I’mrenting a car that you’re not allowed to drive. I will be your agent-chauffeur if it means you’ll sit your ass down and write some damn words.”
“We literally just moved here yesterday. Stop making it sound like I’m resting on my laurels.” I wondered why anyone would bother sitting on laurels. The leaves were so pointy.
“Then prove me wrong and go and write one hundred words right now.” She pointed in the direction of the library.
“Now? It’s barely nine in the morning. My brain doesn’t wake up until at least noon,” I hedged.
“Now,” Zoey said firmly. “You’ll feel better after you do it. Maybe we can put this crisis of confidence to bed one hundred words at a time.”
Grumbling, I snagged my morning caffeine of choice—a Wild Cherry Pepsi—from the fridge and trudged into the library.
It was warm, sunny, and almost completely barren. My laptop sat open and plugged in on the shabby wooden sewing table that Zoey—or the raccoon—had dusted off and moved into the alcove created by the half circle of windows overlooking the side yard. There was an old wooden chair with saggy caning behind the desk that looked about as comfortable as a pile of laurels. My trusty noise-canceling headphones sat perched on a notebook open to a blank page.
I’d focus better if I had an actual desk chair. And maybe some books on the shelves. And if I stocked up on fun office supplies. I liked the orderliness of fresh pens and colorful sticky notes.
“I don’t hear you typing,” Zoey sang from the kitchen.
“Bite me,” I called back.
In a huff, I tucked the soda into my armpit and closed the doors to the hallway. They didn’t exactly slam, but it was loud enough I was confident I’d gotten my point across.
Cautiously, I circled the table and pulled out the chair. “Okay, laptop. It’s just you and me. We used to be friends, remember?”
I sat. The caning groaned in protest. “Shut up, you.”
I definitely needed a cat. This room required one. And talking to a cat was less weird than talking to myself. Maybe I could tame the raccoon and become the eccentric writer lady with the pet raccoon?
Footsteps in the hall had me guiltily opening my writing program. And the software update prompt gave me a convenient reprieve to stare out the windows and drink my Pepsi.
“Think about the story,” I instructed myself and went to stand in the window. “Who is my lucky couple?”
An image of the scowling Cam behind the wheel of his truck popped into my head. I wondered what a normal day that didn’t involve saving women from eagles looked like. If I hired him, I’d have a front-row seat to his work, his daily life, his incredibly well-formed butt.
Plants. I need plants in here. The long viny kinds that could climb down the bookcases and add some life to the space. Of course, I’d have to remember to water them. But if I was in here writing every day, plant maintenance would become part of my routine.
I glanced over my shoulder. The update was complete. The new project was open.
I returned to the desk and sat. The blank page was aggressively white. I took a few minutes to fiddle with the document formatting to get it the way I liked. But soon I had nothing left to procrastinate on without raising Zoey’s suspicions.
“One hundred words,” I reminded myself. “I used to be able to do that in minutes. It’s muscle memory, right?”
The blinking cursor was a tiny billboard shouting about the pristine blankness of the document.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I read aloud as I typed. “Okay, me. Six words down, ninety-four to go.” Nodding at the word count, I slipped on my headphones, cued up my Write Your Ass Off playlist, and set the timer on my phone for twenty-five minutes.
“Where to start?” I muttered to myself over The Killers in my ears. Once again, my Handsome Cam-lookalike hero popped into my head. He was having a good day. No. A great day. The sun was shining, his truck window was down, and his favorite song was on the radio. Too bad it was all about to be ruined, I thought with an evil smirk.
