Page 1 of Bad Enough

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APRIL 6TH

Sylvan

PING! “You’ve got mail!”

After clicking into her email and scanning its new contents, she worried the left side of her bottom lip and hissed when she felt herself draw blood. “Go. Away.” Hastily, she clicked the box in front of the new, unwanted email, clicked the “delete” button, and then proceeded back to her manuscript.

Fingers poised over her keyboard, she stared at the white page. Her brain waited for words to flow from its dark, creative corners.

A full minute passed, and nothing happened. Her fingers didn’t even twitch.

Her eyes narrowed to pour every ounce of her energy into staring down the cursor’s mocking wink.

Aw, are you stuck?

“No, I am not stuck.”

Hmm. Distracted, perhaps? By anything in particular? Or should I say, “anyone”?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, I think you know EXACTLY who I’m talking about.

“Please, what would be the point of being distracted by him? It’s not like he cares.”

See? You knew who I meant. And distractions don’t have a point. That’s why they’re called distractions. They are, by definition, pointless. Besides, he must care at least a little. The two of you texted for hours two nights ago. Not his previous M.O., which was to text you, you replied, and a couple of hours would go by before he responded again.

“Maybe you should stop bothering me. You’re the one distracting me right now.”

Don’t blame this on me! Blame it on tall, dark, and broody.

“You don’t know that he’s any of those things. You’ve never seen him.”

Oh, but I can imagine him that way. And if I can, that means you can because we’re the same person. So be a good girl and admit he’s distracting you.

She huffed in indignation. “I will admit no such thing!”

Who do you think you’re fooling? Do you even hear yourself talking to yourself? Don’t tell me you’re not distracted.

“Oh, for sittin’ on the cat. Are you even listening to me? Us? Whatever! I told you I’m distracted. I’m just not distracted by him.”

That’s so sweet. You honestly believe that, don’t you? Stop lying to yourself. Recognizing the problem is the first step to recovery!

“I’m ignoring you now. Buh-bye.”

Sylvan swore she heard mocking laughter echoing inside her head.

Giving her shoulders a quick shake, she settled her fingers in the “asdfjkl;” position on the keyboard once more and returned her eyes to the screen with a new sense of purpose.

Three minutes later? Nothing. Not even a string of gibberish.

“These words aren’t going to type themselves, you dumb bunny, so think of something! Forty-seven days isn’t much time.”

A frustrated sigh expelled itself from her mouth with a force strong enough to lift the stray wisps of hair falling loose from the messy pile on top of her head. In twenty-five previous manuscripts, she had never experienced this. Writing manuscript one, with no technical understanding of the craft, words poured out of her fingertips so fast even she had been surprised. With manuscript two, she’d worried that her sophomore effort would prove her greatest fear—that the freshman effort was a fluke, and she’d never write another novel. But even then, the words had always come, although they weren’t necessarily great ones at first.

Today? Not a floofin’ thing.

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