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Chapter One
Lily
“All right,” I mumble to myself. “First word, first word. Word. Word. Word. What’s a good word?”
I tap the keyboard making a mess of the letters on the blank Word document until all I’ve written is GHAKJACKNCNLAC. For the fifth time, I hit the backspace button until there’s nothing on the screen but the damn cursor that won’t stop blinking.
“Once upon a time?” I mutter to myself. No. Too fairy tale. There was a girl named… No. Too cheesy.
“Arrghhh!”
I slam the laptop closed in frustration as I explode out of my seat and go into the kitchen to make coffee for the sixth time today.
I’ve been excitedly waiting for this week for months and now that I’m here, I can’t get started. Who knew that writing a book would be so damn hard?
For years I’ve dreamed of renting a cottage in the mountains for a week to write a romance novel. I pictured it in perfect detail: the log cabin on a secluded mountain (check), a week off work to do nothing but write (check), a light snow falling outside as I sit under a blanket at the desk (check), and a finished amazing novel by the end of the week (what’s the opposite of a check?).
It’s my second day here and I haven’t written one word. Yesterday, I sat in front of the blank page for twenty minutes trying to think of something, anything, to write until I got so frustrated that I spent the rest of the day holding my phone up by the window to try and get a signal so I could watch Netflix. Unfortunately, the Internet was working as well as my brain was.
“Come on, Lily. All you have to do is write. It’s easy. Stephen King writes like twenty books a year.”
I’m talking to myself as I walk around the kitchen in my slippers. This is going to be a long week.
“What are you doing here?” I mumble when I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. “You should have gone to Vegas.”
I get two vacation weeks a year, and I’ve wasted one on a boring cabin by myself with the world’s worst internet connection. What the hell was I thinking?
With a sigh, I head back into the living room and open the laptop back up.
Just start writing. Don’t think. Write.
I sit down and start moving my fingers over the keyboard without thinking too much. There’s a story in my brain somewhere. I just have to let it pour out.
Katie was having the worst day ever.
Good. This is good. I have a character now and her name is Katie. Now, why is Katie having a bad day?
Katie was having the worst day ever. She was super constipated.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Come on. This is supposed to be romantic.
Katie was having the worst day ever. Her mother just died and they were really close.
Great, now I’m crying over an imaginary mother. Deleeeeetttte.
Katie was having the worst day ever.
What’s wrong Katie? What did they do to you?
Katie was having the worst day ever. She lost her wallet and then…
Yes! Yes!
and then got bit by a penguin.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I’m back to the flashing cursor on the blank page. Being a writer sucks.
A little while later, I head outside for a walk. I read on Facebook once that walking helps creativity and I can use any help I can get. Actually, I didn’t read the whole article but it said it all in the headline.
When I’m all bundled up, I step outside and breathe in the cool mountain air. The cottage is really cute, and would be perfect for a real writer. A wannabe writer, not so much.
The snow is deep and powdery, and I sink to my knees on the first three steps.
“That’s better,” I mumble as I get to the driveway. It was shoveled before I got here.
The view is spectacular from up here. Truly magnificent. Every time I take a look at the sweeping panorama of snowy mountains and tall spruce trees it takes my breath away. There’s no other cottage in sight.
It was terrifying to drive up here along the slippery roads, especially knowing there’s absolutely no one around. The description on the website said that it was secluded, and boy did they deliver. I haven’t seen anyone in two days.
It’s a little scarier than I thought it would be. Especially at night.
I’ve never been this far into the wilderness before, let alone by myself. I’ve always been a city girl, working in the concrete jungle. This real jungle stuff is not for me.
Just stick to the road and you’ll be fine.
I tighten my scarf and walk along the road. The snow is up to my ankles but the sun is out as it snows lightly. It’s a beautiful day.
Okay. Think about the book. Think about Katie.
