Jenny stepped back, admiring the work she’d put in. Where once there had been papers, old pens, and stray receipts littering her desk, now she only had her laptop, a dictionary, and a notebook. Satisfied that she wouldn’t be distracted by anything else, Jenny glanced at the clocked. “Nine forty-five!” Marveling that the day had gone so quickly, she sat down to get started on her novel.
“Sarah slammed her bag on the counter and opened the fridge. Staring blankly at the contents, or rather lack thereof, she ran through the events of the day in her head…”
Jenny stopped typing and read what she’d written. It was terrible. This was definitely not an auspicious start to the whole project. Why she was even doing this again she did not know. Sure, there was the whole theory of being an actual writer, but who was she kidding. In her entire life, Jenny had probably written just enough to fill a short book, and now she was trying to write a whole novel, a Herculean task.
Leaning back in her chair, Jenny crossed her arms and stared at the screen. The cursor stared back, taunting her with its slow, steady blinking. See, it seemed to say, I do what I set out to do, why can’t you? Jenny looked away from the screen, her gaze landing on the bookshelves that lined the room. Each of the books there was like an old friend, well known and loved. She longed for the ability to create such wonderful characters. Jenny looked back at the screen and rested her fingers on the keyboard again, determined to get a good start this time.
Rolling her eyes at her inability to write an opening sentence, Jenny decided to stop for the night. Swirling her finger on the laptop’s tracking pad, Jenny moved the mouse, clicked File and Save As, and then hesitated. Was it actually worthwhile to save the nonexistent novel that she’d barely begun? Exhaling a breath, she typed “WIP” and hit enter. Still wallowing in self-loathing and self-pity, Jenny closed the file, turned off her computer, and crawled into bed.