The Story Seeker

Prologue

A blank page.

That's what Alice Fletcher stared at for forty minutes straight. Her so-called 'brainstorming period' of the day clearly hadn't been working. No matter what she did, Alice's mind was a blank slate. Nothing was more frustrating than an author experiencing a writer's block, especially one as dreadfully long as Alice's was. She sighed.

As frustrating as it was, why would it change all of the sudden? It had been that way for months now; everyday she'd sit at her cluttered desk and do futile brainstorming for hours, yet nothing came to her mind. Her tight-knit group of friends was worried about her and insisted she needed to forget about writing for a while, take a break of it; that way 'ínspiration would strike when she least expected it to' her friend Mindy would often say. Jacob would insist she needed a vacation and practically spammed her e-mail account with touristic travelling packages. Seriously, the man found so many discounts that Alice wondered how come he never became a travels agent! Jaden, Jacob's steady boyfriend would say every time the subject came up (much to his mismay) ''Allie honey, all that stressing is going to take a toll on that skin of yours and it'll shrivel up overnight, for God's sake take care of yourself woman!" He'd sigh dramatically and end up convincing her one way or another to go to the spa with him the following weekend, because he didn't want to see her ''end up like a raisin''. Jaden's message was clear: Why not seek inspiration while wearing an avocado facial? Clearly Alice could not find comfort in spas and -honestly- facials she'd rather eat than wear. Thankfully, after a while Jaden gave up on the whole weekly spa-appointment, pampering routine.

She didn't only fear not being able to write anything within a deadline, -yes, her publishing house had given her a year's time to write another novel and time was running disturbingly fast- but was more worried about the fact that she was struggling to write, something that had come completely naturally to her as long as she could remember. Actually she owed everything she had, everything she had accomplished in her life, to her writing skills. She was a 22 year old successful, published writer and had become a Best-Seller author at the ridiculously young age of 18. Admittedly, you could not possibly achieve that without having extraordinary talent. Though not many had the mixture of luck and talent she'd posessed as a teenager when her first novel hit the charts. She had written that novel the summer after graduating high school back home in Sacramento and finally convincing herself that she had nothing to lose, she sent the manuscript to a reknown editorial that quickly responded and published the book. It was never expected that it would be such a success. The demand skyrocketed, beyond anyone's expectations, and more editions were made.

Without a backwards glance she moved to New York City, the place she'd always dreamed of living in since she was a little girl, leaving all the haunting memories of a tormented childhood back in her deceptively sunny hometown, were they belonged. She never regretted leaving California, not once; New York was her ideal place, it was a chaotic clash of people and cultures. Old and new buildings weaved together. High class and low class mixing unashamedely everywhere. Never ending noise. Smoke. Skyscrapers everywhere. No inhibitions. People buzzing by on the streets, the subway, always in a hurry. Yellow cabs flashing by. Bright dizzying lights, never dimming. God, even the chihuahua-sized rats that could bite your toe off were lovely. It was all lovely, it was all so alive. She loved it.  She loved it all.

What would happen if she couldn't write anymore? She'd lose it. She couldn't move away from that city, never. It was the only place she could call home! She couldn't do a job that didn't involve writing, it was the one thing that actually made her feel special, useful. She felt stark naked, vulnerable without that ablity and that release of emotions that came while writing. What would she do without it?That was why the sole idea of that inspirational spark in her, that didn't fail her at the age of 18, not coming back ever again terrified her beyond her wildest dreams. It would be like losing a deep part of yourself, deep down in the core of your being. When you have no one, rely on nothing, but that one thing that makes your insides warm like fire embers, that makes you feel whole and alive and simply happy to be... If you lose it you end up hollow, metaphorically dead. You can't lose it. Alice only relied on that. She couldn't lose it.

Alice climbed out one of the windows of her apartment, stepping on the building's fire escape. She had a couple of potted flower plants there and a plastic lawn chair she occasionally used to sunbathe in and watch the sun set against the imposing city skyline. She sat on the top stair and rested her head on the rusty side railing, causing her long mane of dark red curls to matt against the side of her heart-shaped, fair-skinned face. Staying in that tired position, troubled jade green eyes framed by thick dark lashes gazed up at the bright orange moon partially blurred by the thick coat of smock and barely-there clouds extending over Manhattan.   

Now that you've read this tidbit, I want to let you know that I'm struck by inspiration when I least expect it to and I often take advantage of it in stuff that's not writing. So yeah. I'm unpredictable, BUT you can definitely expect me to post the entire story in a very short time span months from now, in 2014. If you think the story is worth it, just save it to your 'Read Later' list or something, and get ready to be pleasantly when you see the whole thing posted one random day. I hope the waiting will be worth it. :)