Unwritten

× one.

The coffee dances on her taste buds as she downs another gulp. The bitterness washes over her in a wave of muted energy. It's the type of bitter that flows down her throat like molten lava. It leaves her brain buzzing. A shame this sort of buzz doesn't fill her with inspiration.

"The boy—"

"His heart raced when . . .—"

"He took her hand—"

"— — —"

Her hands slammed against the keyboard unceremoniously. Contents of a half-drank double espresso spilled slightly. Her dark-rimmed eyes stared at the blank page in exasperation and it glared back with equal ferocity.

Write me! Write me! Write me—

"I'm trying!" Her voice cut through the pleasant atmosphere of the coffee shop. She freezes, her mind reeling at the thought of the odd looks strangers threw her way.

She sips her coffee awkwardly, the apples of her cheeks blossoming into an embarrassing red. Maybe if she slumped back into her chair enough, she could sink in and hide. Hide away from people with only her ideas by her side. And maybe a thesaurus. And her laptop. And her . . .—Her mind wanders. . .

Hasty eyes flicker onto her journal at a last attempt to avoid eye contact. The ratty book is opened to a sketch of a boy. It's drawn poorly; millions of sketched lines and meaningless scrawls that couldn't be erased littered the paper. The body and face are rushed, drawn barely enough to be called a drawing in itself. Despite that, she makes out the boy hidden among the many, many mistakes. A diamond in the rough? He was cute, in her opinion.

Obviously, she snorts. I created him.

One day, she promises to herself, she will do justice for him. It's funny, especially when all she has on her plate are millions of fragmented plots. 

She flips through her treasured notebook. Pages among pages of scribbles and hatched out ideas. A doodle of herself. A quote. Another quote. And another quote that seemed so deep and emotional . . . that she never touched upon again. She keeps flipping and flipping until she comes upon a 

b l a n k 

page.

The paper feels silky and smooth to her fingers. Writing on it would be such a shame. She chides herself. Not using this notebook would be the real shame!

She breathes. With her black pen in hand, she devises a plan; a blueprint. 

She knows she can't just write. It requires precision, skill, and a whole lot of coffee. 

She muses.

The blank page is an open battlefield, its nothingness becomes a landmine for brilliance. Her words are crafted by Athena herself—they were her bullets. 

But who is the enemy? 

The beauty of it is, she also creates the enemy. Everything is at the mercy of her imagination; she spins the wheel of fate. With that, she scribbled down on the top of the page:

the anatomy of an author.

And feels the buzz coming back.