The curser blinked slowly, waiting for her to write something, anything. The blank white box of MSWord mocked her in its stark emptiness. Faint whispers of Jazz music floated out from the small speakers in her laptop. Slightly tinny, but it wasn’t any big bother. Nearly drowning it out was the patter of rain on the living room window.
She was slouched on a shabby blue couch in her shabby one bedroom apartment. Her toes freezing cold despite the enormous fuzzy slippers that currently adorned them, honestly she didn’t think they had been warm since the moment she stepped into the country.
But no matter, her lap was being kept toasty by the little firebox that wished to consider itself a marvel of technology. Whirring away. Still an empty screen.
She peered past the rain at what on a good day would have been a remarkable view.
Remarkable to her at the very least.
To a small-town girl from Canada the ancient buildings and townhouses that made up this section, and honestly most of the city were something incredible. Her own apartment was a renovated factory, used in the manufacturing of the famed Nottingham lace. It was converted into an apartment building many years after it shut down.
Nottingham. The English city she had chosen as her place of residence for the next year. Partially because other than London it was really the only city she knew anything about. And that only because it was the epicentre of the famed Robin Hood story, and the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham.
And partially because it really was part of a fairy tale, something she only imagined for so many years, it was still somewhat hard for her to believe that it actually existed.
Three weeks she’d been living in her fairy tale and still, there was nothing. She watched as daily the money she had saved and hoarded for this trip disappeared in a steady flow. She could get a job to allow her to stay longer, that was true. But that wasn’t the point of this trip. She wasn’t planning to stay here forever. It was supposed to be a six month leap of faith, somewhere new, some place that her muse couldn’t fail to find her. No work other than concentrating on what was supposed to be her big break. A novel that was going to jumpstart her career as a writer.
A blank page.
For three weeks it had been like this. It was ridiculous. The story was there on her fingertips, it was always there, hundreds of plotlines and ideas chasing each other around in her brain but never quite making it out onto the page.
She still didn’t even know what this story was going to be about, she could pick from any genre, but hadn’t even done that yet.
I guess I just thought it would be so much easier.
That her fingers would write by themselves and without any difficulty to herself she would be able to create a masterpiece.
And so she waited, the rain continuing to drum down.
It was a beautiful country.
Yes, it is. And I have no muse.
In frustration she tossed the laptop onto the couch cushion. Gently of course. Despite her unhappy mood it was still her best friend.
Best friend? Or only friend?
What, really, was the point of writing a fantastic book if you were miserable while doing it?
She glanced up at the only thing adorning her walls. A piece of white printer paper with big black letters scrawled on it, stuck up with scotch tape.
“No one ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have while trying to write one.”
The quote had in recent months taken on a whole new meaning.
She threw her body back on the lumpy cushions, stretching up until her toes curled.
It would be nice if my toes curled for another reason.
But what was the point of thinking about it? That wasn’t why she was here.