Author, Author

Chapter 01

The words fell heavily from her lips, clunky and unglamorous. Like awkward gems, each less interesting than the last, their clatter immense against the polished marble floor. Upon their cacophonous fall, Ann felt an immense

No, no, no. Backspace, delete, alt F4.

This was not going according to plan.

The chapter you were trying to write, the chapter you've been stubbornly working on, no, the book you've been stubbornly working on has refused to be written. No amount of cajoling, coffee, tea, or sweets have worked. The fact that you were six weeks behind was starting to grate on your nerves.

This was writer's block. Something you had never dealt with before.

Always, words spilled from your fingertips to the monitor in a mesmerising flow, each word matching the prior in perfect harmony. Your hands moved effortlessly across the keys, the comforting click click click of the keyboard matching the feel of ease within you. This was how things worked. You sat down, let your fingers talk, and then sent the completed story off to your editor.

Except it wasn't working now.

You clutched your head in your hands. What was wrong with you? How could your thoughts just stop, immediately going blank the second you sat in front of your laptop?

For weeks you had been stuck, absolutely at a loss of what to write. The plot disappeared whIle your fingers desperately tried to move. All your outlines and notes were doing nothing, laying useless in piles around your office. The words that flowed in a way that made you a multi-million dollar writer were nowhere to be found.

Your series of absurd murders and the wicked situations the main character constantly found herself in were a hit. Readers ate up the books with voracious speed. You were being called a top writer of the year, maybe the decade.

A top writer who was suddenly very, very blocked.

It was worse with your notebooks. You had tried so hard to make them work. Pencils, markers, crayons. Coloured pages, lined pages, loose leaf, construction paper even.

All you ended up with were mountains of doodles and crossed out lines.

You had tried all the other tactics you could think of. You wrote upside down, lying down, on your side, even at a walking desk! You'd played your favourite songs, BTS crooning away in your ears.

You'd played your most hated songs, opera screeching through your thoughts.

Nothing worked.

Sighing, you got up and stretched.

Your editor, Macy, had sent the latest group of fanmail to you. Most mail was opened and sent a generic signed letter. But some letters, those who passed Macy's vetting system, those letters were forwarded to you, and you were always happy to answer them. It was the least you could do for your fans. You recalled the first time you received a generic letter back from an author, a meaningless splash of words on a page, followed by a stamped signature. You never wanted anyone to feel the way you had upon receipt of that letter.

To be honest, you loved hearing from your fans. You never quite understood the hype behind your books, but you were beyond thrilled that others liked reading the stories you wove.

You wished you could read all the letters that came in, but it was impossible at this point. In the beginning you had answered each letter personally. But the second your third book had hit the bestseller list (and consequently the previous two, as well) it became too much for one person. Especially if you still wanted time to write. Or sleep. Or shower. Or exist.
So Macy went through the letters with an intern, and you answered the ones you received with as much honesty as you could.