I was buried in my journal. So many scenarios filled my head as my pen unfolded the story. Its pointed tip scraped along the pages, putting every scene, each feeling and thought into words with poetic grace. The emotions flooded me, with the picture I imagined so clear, so strong in my thoughts that it was as if I was watching it all before me. It was perfection—the way that something as simple as words could paint such vivid pictures for its readers and strike them with tragedy, make their stomachs flutter with butterflies from romance, and sit on the edge of their seats with heart racing action and adventure. Perfection was it that could use words to draw in minds and keep steadfast their intrigue. The pen was certainly mightier than the sword. Absolute perfection it was.
And then, the emotions stopped coming. The images vanished suddenly, taking every idea with it as my pen halted. The flood gates had closed. Writer’s block. I blinked, staring as the ink pooled around the tip and stained the paper. A heavy sigh emerged from me, and my pen was set aside. This was my third journal yet—the third I had used to attempt this story with. And yet, each one thus far was just a waste. The first draft did not come together as I had planned. Rereading it revealed to me how choppy the story was written, how flat the emotions were and scenes were either too fast or prolonged to a bore. The second was a failure to even make sense. It was immediately thrown away. And now writer’s block challenged me. I dared not to read what I’d written so far, for I knew I was likely to find mistakes that would cause this one to be put in the burn pile as well. But I mustn’t allow my inner critic to show itself yet. I would never finish this story if I did. For now, my goal was to reach the end. That was it. Reach the final part that closes the story before I read my first draft. Then, I could criticize, and fix my mistakes in the next one.
I let the wet ink dry to prevent smudging and gently closed my journal. My fingers started rubbing circles on my temples, as if I were trying to massage away a headache. But I was trying to contain my frustration, and fighting to maintain my determination to finish my novel. Never before had I finished a story, all for the same reasons. Words fail me, my imagination lacks, loss of muse discourages me. I was weary of giving up before finishing those I started. I would never know what I could fulfill, how successful I could be if I didn’t make a change. And yet, I did not know how. Was it laziness? Perhaps I didn’t want it enough to keep motivated? Neither were charming thoughts.
I turned my eyes up and looked at the clearing before me. Atop a small inclination I sat that bordered the edge of our village. At the bottom of the slope lay our fields of wheat and vegetables. Father was chopping away at the golden stems with a sickle amongst the other men. He was merely yards away, his wide brimmed hat shielding his sweat coated face from my view. I forced myself to look away as I put my journal into my bag. Just looking at my father had become very difficult to do. Even sharing the same house with him made me feel like I’m suffocating.
“Ginger,” a feminine voice demanded my attention. I slowly turned to look over my shoulder where my mother stood, stern faced with no care in her eyes. And standing beside her was a man. He was pleasant to look at, with long black tresses and golden eyes. His attire was noble, bought with money our village did not have. A foreigner, and a wealthy one. But no attraction came to me, no interest, no desires. Only cold fear. Because in his eyes I saw the attraction I lacked as he gazed upon me, the interest, the desires. And in my mother’s eyes, there was greed. “Make yourself decent,” my mother ordered. A smirk made me shiver from the icy suggestion hidden behind her following words, “You have a guest.”
No… Not another one!
My hands trembled as I took up my bag and lifted myself to my feet, but all I could do was nod mutely. I dropped my gaze and watched my feet as I hurried away, avoiding the man when I passed him by. Once I was at a comfortable distance, walking amongst the trees, I dared to look back. Mother and father were already speaking with the man. I knew what was to come. No matter what I say and how hard I will fight…it always ends the same, with me getting hurt. Now it was a race to see what happens first. Will I be saved? Or will I be broken?
