Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
The cabin is silent, save for the distant sound of the lake lapping against the shore, but I know that this is usually the time when the noise in my head is the loudest. It’s like my inner critic decides to take up permanent residence, reminding me of every flaw, every scathing review, every scene I’ve questioned, and now, every time I didn’t fight hard enough for a fictional character.
But for the first time in a long time, there’s a faint whisper of hope, a tiny voice suggesting that maybe, just maybe, I can find my way back to the words. The possibility that a little controlled exposure to my readers, combined with the solitude, could be a good thing. It feels like a revolution, albeit a pocket-size one.
As I head to my bedroom, I think about tomorrow. I hope it’ll be a more productive day, that I’ll wake up with a clearer mind and a fresh perspective on this love triangle. And perhaps I’ll be a tiny bit less afraid of the online world, thanks to Nora and a carefully vetted live stream that didn’t spontaneously combust.
It will be okay.
Chapter Four
“It will be okay,” I repeat to myself as I tear the plastic off my second 5-hour Energy shot of the day. It’s my writing ritual.
Well, it’s not so much a ritual as it is a really, really bad habit.
I avoid any type of soda or other carbonated beverage because it upsets my stomach, but for some reason, I can shoot a 5-hour Energy shot first thing every morning and it doesn’t have a single negative effect on me. It just puts the pep in my step that coffee otherwise would. What makes it worse, though, is that by lunch, I convince myself I need five more hours of energy, so I’m up to two a day now.
I’m not sure it works that way—that two of them will give me ten hours of energy—but I’ve conditioned my brain to think it does, and now I can never be fully convinced I’m at my best until I’ve consumed both, and I can’t be productive until I have them. Sometimes I drink them at the same time, which means soon, I’ll start adding a third one later in the day.
Which, by all definitions, is an addiction.
I’m just waiting to give them up until either my heart gives out on me, or I retire, but as long as I’m here and forced to still work, 5-hour it is.
I prefer the strawberry banana flavor. They’re all pretty terrible, but it’s just a shot, so I hold my breath and down my second shot of the day. I toss the empty bottle into the trash can just as someone knocks at the front door.
My first instinct is to duck for cover, but my second instinct is that of a more mature adult. I head to see who’s at the door, hoping it’s just Louie and not someone new, but when I glance through the peephole, I’m not met with Louie’s face. Instead, I come eye to eye with lots of bright-orange . . . stuff.
I just see a lot of orange, so I back up for a moment to let my eyes adjust. I look out the peephole again, and whoever was standing so close to the door has backed up now, and I can make out a head.
It’s a woman with a lot of curls. Bright-orange curls hanging down to her shoulders. She’s older than me, probably a little older than my mother. She’s wearing a long silk dress, with a matching shawl covered in purple flowers. I can’t tell if it’s a nightgown or a fashion choice, but I do know that she’s probably Louie’s wife. Just a wild guess based on her age, the fact that she’s here, and the pan of food she’s holding.
If I hadn’t had ten hours of energy shots already today, I’m not sure I could find it in me to open the door, because the way she’s dressed combined with her hair makes me think she is not a quiet introvert. Luckily, I have the energy to meet someone new. I’m also curious if her hair is natural, so I open the door to greet her and to get a better look.
“Hi, hi!” she sings. Her voice is exactly as I imagined it—a little bit too loud and a lot chipper. And her hair is definitely not natural. That color is a conscious choice. But it works. Somehow.
“Can I help you?”
“You met my husband when you checked in.” Her voice sounds solid and trained, like she could probably sing and project on a stage. “Just seeing if you need anything!”
“Hi. No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Good, good,” she says. I open the door wider, and her eyebrows twitch in excitement just a little bit at the thought of being invited inside. She holds up the tray. “Brought you some goodies.”