Sitting in a chair in front of a desk with a pen, and paper in her small, white hands is Liane. She Hopes to write a story of adventure, lies, love, and twists. She is an admirer of the great J. R. R. Tolkien, and refuses to write her book with any sort of device other than a pen, and paper because she wants to write as he did.
Two hours have passed, and she hasn’t written much. Her trash has overcame itself with paper, and she has had to rewrite the story so much, and thrown it away so many times that she has memorized the only part that she so far believes is “acceptable”.
Soon three hours had passed, and very little had gotten done. She could just not compose the words that quite illustrated the story she had dreamt. The story shortly turned from one of adventures, to one of romances. The romance genre was but a dead idea in her mind by the time the fifth hour has passed by.
Now it is 10 PM. She has not eaten. Her coconut-colored hair is a mess, and she’s biting her nails. She then let’s out a faint cry, wondering why she cannot succeed. It’s killing her inside, and out. She never did imagine that writing was more of an art then a game.
She just could not compose the words.