Annabelle stared at her boring bedroom walls, trying to figure out how to write this last chapter of an old book she tried writing years ago. The blank walls didn't seem to fill her with any new ideas, and come to think of it, she still wanted to decorate her room. It's now been five years and the walls are still an off-white color, but she covered a lot of the wall with posters and drawings. Annabelle loves to make art. Annabelle has a talent, a small one. She can't draw a huge masterpiece, like someone's face or something, but she can draw and paint like nobody's business.
Even though most people would assume painting or decorating and moving furniture would take some help, she didn't care. Impatience has always been a flaw in Annabelle, but she didn't recognize it in this moment, because all she wanted was a safe space where her thoughts could run wild while she felt inspired enough to finish one measly chapter of an insanely old and poorly written book. So she made plans to do exactly what would make her feel (hopefully) more optimistic in her art.