Boredom. “Tick tock tick tock,” sang the clock on the
plaster wall. The bare wood floor was warm against my feet as I stared out the
window, far away to places I had never been. I glanced back to the typewriter,
sitting there, terrorizing me. I couldn’t do it. I would fail if I tried to
bring these characters, which had been my constant companions in my head, to
life on the written page. My mind felt empty and I did not have any idea of
what to do. I traced out the swirling faint image of a castle on a broad, snowy
plain and a ruined city in which children fought to stay alive in my mind.
These dreams and ideas deserved a better, more talented creator than I. They
needed someone who could show off their hopes and fears and love and pain with
the gentlest of strokes. Not me, who made everything feel forced and switched
between the perspectives as if I was jumping from log to log. I kept on staring
at the window, hoping for a blast of inspiration that would get the heroine out
of the dungeon. No luck. I sighed with annoyance and stood up, pushing the
chair back under the desk and grabbing my coat. Even in the middle of summer
there was a slight chill. The brass handle of the door to my small flat was
cool to the touch and I pulled it open and stepped outside into a fresh,
calming breeze, which tossed my hair into a tangle around my face. I locked the
door and trudged down the old, worn concrete stairs towards the park.
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