Have you ever wondered how Shakespeare put ink to parchment and wrote all those now famous words? Or how J.K. Rolling managed to write pages of brilliance? Anne Frank, Henry George, Jane Austin, Oscar Wilde, Stephanie Myer, all great writers but have you ever wondered how?

Amalie looked down at the blank piece of paper in front of her, pen in hand. She was wondering, my lord was she wondering.

“This is impossible! Absolutely impossible! All the famous writers must be witches or something! I want to write a fairytale, it can’t be that hard!” exclaimed Amalie, frustrated and tired. She glanced at the clock ticking steadily on the wall and sighed when she realised it was past midnight.

“Is it that late already? Mum would kill me if she knew I was up this late trying to write this stupid story,” she muttered to herself before rising from her old, worn desk chair and retiring to her bed. Sleep nearly drifted over her when she heard a small knocking on her door. Confused and anxious she opened her door to reveal her mother holding a large book.

            “Amalie, sweetheart, I have a gift for you,” she whispered in the dark. Amalie turned the light switch on, filling the room with a warm glow, just in time to see her mother place the heavy heap on her desk. “I hope it helps with your writing,” she smiled before leaving without another word. Amalie stood alone in her room, awestruck. She had no idea how her mother even knew about her story assignment. With new found enthusiasm she opened the heavy cover and gasped with joy when she realised it was an old book of fairy tales. The book was old, and antique, the pages had started yellowing, and the spine was worn and tattered.

            “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, knowing no one would hear her soft voice. She turned through the pages, looking at the incredible illustrations of Cinderella at the ball, Sleeping Beauty’s castle, Snow White’s dwarves, the Beast with his Beauty and Rapunzel’s long golden hair. She wondered to herself which classic story would be next. She carefully turned the page.

            “What?” she exclaimed in confusion when she saw nothing. There were a few yellowing pages without a drop of ink on them, just enough pages for another story to be written. She kept searching the pages until Little Red Riding Hood began and her eyes met a picture of a vicious wolf.

            “That is so weird,” she pondered as a wave of sleepiness swept over her and she suddenly couldn’t read anymore. She climbed beneath her satin quilt and happily welcomed the presence of sleep.

The sun shone through the open blinds and brightened Amalie’s room with its presence. She rose happily even though she had little sleep, because it was Monday. She got to return to her beloved school, St. Betteridge College. She didn’t love it for the education, not at all. She loved it for the fact that she ruled it. Being head cheerleader she was on top of the food chain. People basically threw rose petals in her path. She frowned as she realised she would have to pay attention in class today. The cheer coach has cracked down on the teams lowering grades. All the girls had to pass every subject and get at least one A to stay on the team.  Because Amalie could manage a B minus in English she decided it was her best subject and she wouldn’t stop until she received an A. She looked at the big old book on her desk and wondered how she would ever get an A if she couldn’t even write a story. She walked to her closet and put her uniform on, frowning slightly at the length of her skirt before putting her cheer uniform in her school bag.

            “Stupid private school uniform and ugly shoes,” she mumbled as she left her room. She skulled her coffee her mother had so gratefully left her and ran out to the street.

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