It was a jaw-dropping sight. His sinewy muscles and tanned skin gleamed above the surface like raw honey, the planes of his taught back rising up from his firm buttocks. His hair seemed longer when wet, the color of copper, and clung to his shoulders as he surveyed the calm pond in front of him.
Phenelope swallowed hard, feeling a myriad of feelings course through her. She had never thought of Luthwen that way and never once entertained the idea of him liking her. After all, she was part bird and life was far too painful and serious to ever fall in love with someone else, let alone have physical relations. But now, observing him in secret, she found her nerves sparkled with need and the urge to strip herself naked to her feathers and join him in the water was nearly overwhelming.
But she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She’d learned her lesson before.
I stare at the words on my computer screen, reading them over and over again, trying to get back into the flow of things, trying to figure out where to go next. But I can’t. It’s the most curious and frustrating case of writer’s block ever.
Actually, the last time I’d written anything was when I fixed up the last few paragraphs of The Heart Thief before we handed it in the other day. Ever since then, mind has been stuck, slogging through mud. It’s not even that the weather is gorgeous and the summer is laid out ahead of me like a warm, pristine blanket and that I’m distracted by life. It’s not that at all. It’s that the will to finish the story as I had planned has whittled down to nothing.
When I was writing the novella with Blake, the words couldn’t come fast enough, even though the easiest parts seemed to come with Phenelope and Luthwen’s interaction. Just being in the habit of writing, of creating, spilled out into my other work. But now when I think about my next scenes and where I have to go after, it’s like I’m dragging my feet. I can only write with a gun to my head.
The worst part is, the only time I do feel like writing a bit more is when I entertain the thought of turning the novel into a romance, or at least upping the sexual and romantic nature of the book. But I’m fighting it because Phenelope should be fighting it. We both have to stay strong. Luthwen may be handsome and brawny and oozing with sex appeal but that doesn’t mean Phenelope should sacrifice the mission by sleeping with him.
“How is it going?” Ana asks.
I look up over my computer to see her standing in the doorway, smiling warily at me. She knows, oh she knows, that the worst thing to say to a struggling writer is “How is it going?” or “Get any writing done?” Bitch, if I’ve got writing done, you can fucking bet you’ll know about it.
But I don’t have the strength to get mad. I sigh, pushing myself back from the computer and rub my forehead, trying to loosen the tension. “It sucks,” I mumble. “I’m just staring at the screen and when I’m not staring at the screen I’m staring at the walls and when I’m not staring at the walls I’m having a nap.”
“Want to be my guinea pig again?” She waves a green lipstick at me. “I could use the help. I’m supposed to do space and fantasy makeup. You know, the nerd stuff you like.”
That does sound more interesting than normal and I know this time she’ll probably nail it since her day-to-day makeup usually borders on the side of 80’s futuristic prom queen, but I can’t be bothered doing anything. Even going for a run is a struggle. I fear my writer’s block is slowly leading to life block. And then what?
“How about you do it to yourself and I’ll watch,” I tell her.
“Sounds kinky,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure everything sounds kinky to you.” Actually, everything has been sounding kinky to me lately, hence the pervy peeping-Tom scene in my book.
Phenelope you are a pervert, I think to myself.
Still I get up and follow Ana out into the kitchen. I’ve totally resigned myself to the fact that makeup has permanently taken over the table. I’m often drinking my coffee around mascara tubes and color correctors. The other day I found cream eyeshadow in my protein shake.
Luckily this is Ana’s last couple of weeks of school, even though it means she’s trying to practice on me as much as she can. I had Rio over the other day and watched Ana transform her into a pretty convincing drag queen, though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her intention.
Even though it’s only three in the afternoon, I go and get a bottle of local pinot gris out of the fridge. Fuckitall—a prescription for the daily blahs.
I’ve just poured us both a glass—thank god for day drinking roommates—when my phone rings.
Thinking it’s either my mother or a telemarketer, I fish it out of my pocket and glance at it.
It’s Blake.
I have to admit I’m surprised to see him calling.
Surprised, and, well…I’ll just ignore that little flip my heart did.
“Hey,” I say as I answer, sounding more chipper than I meant to.
Ana watches me with the slow raise of her scarily arched eyebrow.
“Hey, big red,” he says smoothly. “Catch you at a bad time?”
I stare down at the glass of wine. “Not really. Was about to get my day drink on.”
“What a coincidence, so was I.” There’s a lengthy pause and find myself sucking in my breath, not sure what he’s going to say next.
“Did you want to join me?” he asks. “Beautiful day, a slow period at Spinnakers. We could grab a couple of shrubs on the patio.”