Writing

Meg sat at her desk. Her pen hovered over the parchment. Many times the pen moved toward the parchment and then away. She had writer's block. Her new book had just been published. She had promised a series of three books. A story that told tales of dragons, villains, and, of course, the fairy tale love story. Instead of writing the sequel, she sat stumped. Worried she wouldn’t be able to deliver.

The shadow of her willow tree crept through the window as the sun started to set. The grandfather clock chimed for the fourth time since she had come in to write. The pen sat atop the empty parchment as she stood from the old oak desk. A hot cup of tea might help spark her imagination.

The first book was easy. Words flowed from her pen so naturally. The story tattooed onto the pages and bound into a beautiful masterpiece within months. Her readers gobbled it up like coffee cake on a Sunday morning. This time, however, it felt like the magic had left her fingertips.

She sat at her small kitchen table and waited for the whistle of the kettle. The delicate floral paintings on her favorite tea cup looked even more radiant in the setting sunlight that draped over her kitchen table. She picked it up, and slid her fingers over the designs. A smile crept up her cheek. She let out a deep sigh of contentment, and stared out into her empty living room. The sun had taken over the house. Leaving a bright glow wherever it laid. The kettle sprang to life on the stove behind her.

She took the cup of tea back to her writing nook. Meg slid her hand across the oak chair. Cradling her cup, she looked down. Imagining the words filling up the blank pages with her penmanship. She looked up. Out her window the willow tree slightly swayed in the breeze. Making the setting sunlight dance on her face. Her eyes lit up. She quickly set her cup on the corner of the desk, picked up her pen, and began to write.

The dragon spouting fire appeared on the desk in heated battle with a brave knight. Their dueling moved forward with each stroke of Meg's pen. Echoes of war rang through the room. Silhouettes of soldiers swinging swords at villainous creatures and dragons bearing their teeth. Cries of a battle won slowly faded giving way to celebration and merry songs of victory. A conversation between two lovers, and the heated scene that followed. Meg's cheeks flushed pink.

Everything soon faded with the flicker of a newly lit candle. The moonlight shone down on the willow tree. Meg stretched and stood. The screeching of the chair against the wood floor was deafening. She grabbed the stack of newly written words, and tapped them against the desk so that they were stacked neatly. Letting out a sigh of relief, she stood, grabbed her shawl, and headed outside.

She breathed in the warm summer air, and looked up at the stars. It was so quiet here. Her new life had given Meg the ability to live away from the spoils of modern life. To let her imagination remain in the era it wished. Not one regret had passed her mind since moving away from everything. Her parents told her she would miss out on a life for a normal young lady, but Meg wasn't normal. Spending most of her childhood up in her room reading fairy tales rather than playing with others her age. She found more love in those books than she ever did from reality.

The horses whinnied from the stables. She thought of going to say hello, but thought it best to let them rest. The man who takes care of them had retired to his cottage for the night. A handsome gentleman that kept her company when the nights grew bitter. They were not lovers, but friends. Maybe, one day, into the near future he would be more, but she wasn't ready to settle just yet. One more book, and this fantasy would be complete. Perhaps not for her readers, but it would be enough for her. Tomorrow she would send the pages off, and visit a friend in town. For now, she counted the constellations and relaxed.