November 23

Emily was writing lists of To-Do Lists; laundry, dinner, nightly runs. She was weighing pros and cons, rights and wrongs, even ranking vegetables by how much they look like Steve Buschemi. She was writing everything that one could write -- everything except her novel. 

This would not be a problem for her if it weren’t due eight days from now. However, she was roughly 30,000 words short, and her glass-eyed, sharp-tongued supervisor was not exactly a beast she wished to face empty-handed. Emily was more than capable of producing mass quantities of work in a short period of time. Much of her writing from throughout her studies served to prove this. But the blockades in her brain just had a way of tricking her out of her work, drawing her anywhere else. Meaning the novel sat unattended to, gnawing at her mind until she found some escape tactic to push it out. 

So she sought alternatives. Laptop lid firmly shut, Emily spent her days jogging, meal prepping, tidying the apartment, and performing “research” in the form of binge-watching documentaries. Anything to keep her from writing, really. On the bright side, she was now somewhat of an expert on true crime. Thanks, Dateline. Her mind was spiralling with images of brilliant criminals and suspenseful investigations, which danced ever-so-tauntingly with the looming suspense of her deadline.

The proximity of the deadline still pawed at her, hunching her shoulders and grappling with her thoughts. Not only did this novel need to be finished, but it was to demonstrate all of her learning—and all of the money thrown away—from the past seven years of her education. Not that anything she wrote would ever appease Dr. Miranda, a sphynx-cat of a man, complete with the wrinkles, the soulless glare, and all. 

Sharp breath in. She was going to do this. The low growl of the beastly machine, coming to life. Its flickering light against the dim-lit room. The glare of a menacing-white page of an already-sparse document. It was time to pull herself together and get this done with. She drew in a dense breath, then gulped it down. 

Emily’s hands hovered just above the keyboard, coated in the thick scent of Lysol. She closed her eyes and tensed, imploring the ideas she knew she had somewhere to spill onto the page. But before she could let that happen, the thoughts seemed to bury themselves. Whatever flecks and fragments of words came to her she stifled without regard. There’s no way I’m starting my chapter with that sentence. 

It seemed nothing would cut it, so she resigned to allowing her work to be subpar. This is going to need some serious revision before I let anyone else set eyes on this. Her fingers began to trace along the keys. Chapter VII: The Fi— snap. 

Emily glowered over her right index finger, now adorned with a nearly-severed nail whose stinging pulled her out of whatever shallow attention she had managed. “Guess I’d better give myself a manicure now...so I can focus on writing from now on.” 

November 24 

Emily dreaded the blue-light, sing-song kind of notifications from her phone. She despised them even more when they came from Facebook messenger, knowing exactly who would be getting in touch at this time. You’re not going to have a story to edit if you keep texting me, she grimaced to herself.

Hello Emily. Just wanted to get in touch since the deadline is so soon. I’m excited to read what you’ve got for me --If I’ve got anything for you-- Anyways, how is the novel? -C. Miranda. 

Why does he sign off his texts like that? Doesn’t he know I can see who sent the message? She paused before her newly-manicured fingers skittered across the screen. She chuckled softly as her quip loaded until sent. 

Believe me, it’s on my mind at all times of the day! :) 

To be fair, it wasn’t a total lie. 

Between her futile attempts to push past writer’s block and her intermittent bouts of self-doubt, the process of putting together her story was starting to become more full of twists and turns than the actual story she was putting to paper. Her nonchalant preoccupation was a temporary relief. But it didn’t prevent her sweat from running cold, her hands from trembling ever-so-slightly when the swift deadline crossed her mind. She knew that nothing tasted good anymore, no music sounded sweet. It all sounded like the discordant web of tangled ideas from her mind and smelled like the fear that it could never be good enough. 

With a sigh, she managed to force the document open again. Within minutes, her screen became blotted up with digital ink. She was only interrupted by a few brief moments of stillness, cracking knuckles and sipping water. Procrastination did have its benefits, good hydration being one of them. 

Deliberating, she glanced past her screen out the cramped, dusty window above her desk. If she squinted past the murky barely-daylight, she could see the figures of some neighbours, from the apartment right across, as they entered her building carrying gym equipment. That duffel bag is awfully heavy, a common sign of no-good she recognized  from Dateline. The enticing notion that her neighbours might be ingenious serial killers tugged at her mind, but she didn’t let it stop her fingers’ dutiful typing. If they’re working together, they could be part of some kind of organized crime. Maybe with a drug lord. Or a group of assassins. Or one of them is secretly married, while having a series of affairs, and--

Pause. Emily glanced back at the document, now littered with her stream-of-thought theorizing. She swallowed hard, sheepishly fixing her eyes back to the screen. If only there was room for a pair of serial killers in the world of Industrial Revolution-era England. This is what I get for choosing to write historical fiction. 

November 27

Does typing in Comic Sans make you more productive? The allure of the idea was enough to convince Emily. “I’d better set a reminder to change it back to Georgia,” she muttered to herself. She was scrappy, desperate, skittish enough to give it a shot. Hell, she’d give anything a shot if it could relieve the pressing weight persisting upon her. Though she’d made some progress, she still had a mere six days to write 20 000 words. And if she were being honest with herself, she also knew she needed to devise a miraculous, satisfying ending to a subplot which she has mostly pushed to the sideline until this point. 

The apartment door creaked open, and shopping bags slumped to the ground. 

“Well someone’s been baking,” Sydney’s voice sang from the scrawny, foodless area they called a kitchen. Emily’s gaze flickered up to her roommate, then drifted over to the counter as she finally took in the stacked containers of cookies she had produced this past week. “I’m sure lucky you have such a tasty hobby!” Sydney continued, prying off a blue plastic lid to remove one of the dozens of treats. Dozens and dozens and dozens.

So Emily was a stress baker. 

Brushing crumbs from her chin, Sydney stretched over Emily’s shoulder to glimpse her laptop screen. She squinted, reeling back a bit. 

“You’re scrolling through...babynames.com?” Her brow was raised, gaze sideward. “Is now really the time?” She was promptly met by a jab from Emily’s elbow. 

“There’s just one character who I haven’t named yet.”

“So how’ve you been writing it?” Her voice was lyric, leering. 

“I’ve just been using a placeholder name,” Emily sighed. Sydney peered at the text and snickered. 

“Wait, That’s the name you’ve been using? Emma? It sounds awfully close to your own.”

“No one will notice.” Emily swiped the laptop inwards and huddled around it. 

“Ooh, what name have you got open there?” Sydney scrunched her nose. “Aga...memnon? Are you sure that’s even a name?” 

“I’ll have you know it’s Greek. It means ‘very resolute’ and it’s perfect for this one side character.”

“Oh, I get it. Just like how you’re so resolute to finish this novel. So resolute that you left all of this delicious baking for me.”

“Right, all for you.” Emily’s eyes flitted back to the screen, then dared to drift sideward at her roommate. “Hey Syd, would you read this book?”

“Well yeah, if you really want that,” she retorted, her words crumbling out as she took another bite of cookie. 

“No, not like that. What I mean is, would you want to read my story? As in, do you think it’s any good? From what I’ve told you of course.” Her smile twitched, falling. “I know it’s probably not my best work, and it’s gonna be rushed and all, and--”

“Em, chill out,” Sydney sighed and set a hand on Emily’s shoulder. For a moment, the bubble of self-doubt she had enshrouded herself in was punctured. She let her tensely-held breath slowly dissipate. “You’re a good writer. The best I know.”

“I’m the only writer you know.”

“Shut up. No matter what you put on that page, I know it’ll be good.” Emily cast her gaze away. “Who cares if Dr. Whatever doesn’t like it, anyways? Art is what you do for yourself.”

“You read that off of my mug.”

“It was a very inspiring mug!” At this, Emily finally allowed a tentative laugh to escape her. “Besides, I know you. You love to write. So don’t you want to let yourself enjoy it?”

“I suppose you’re right Syd.”

“No, you’re write.” With a jocose grin, Sydney and her crumb-trail sauntered off. She heaved forth the massive shopping bags she’d let sink at the door frame and her knees listed. “Now I’d better figure out how to make room in my drawers for all of this.”

“Your writing joke was grammatically incorrect, dumbass!”

“Yeah yeah, love you too.”

Emily grinned, scrolling back to the place where the story left off. She scanned the document with brio-tinted eyes. The smog of an English streetcorner was simmering, inviting her in. This was to be the height of her story’s action, the focal point of all she’d been working towards. Every detail, character, wish and whim was weaving together in an intricate knit. Her breath raced through her body wildly. This is what she loved most, the unique thrill of building her very own world. 

Of course, her self-doubt was a sinister thing. It was ambitious, determined. It caressed her cheek warmly and dared her mind to return to its spiralling. Her story would never meet the professor's standards. It would never meet her own standards. And she would never pull something together that she could be happy with, not in this short a timeframe. 

Emily had to push past the sly voice. She weaved the story, adorning the pages carefully with lush words, vivid colours. Now was the time; her protagonist was at his lowest point. She typed. His eyes were wet, thick clusters of dirt and coal clouding his face. Emily dug into his hurt, fingers racing to match her floodgate thoughts. He stood with ferocity, eyes cast to his foe. Emily fought herself, knowing the days were ticking. The young boy swallowed hard and cried out. Emily gulped, and the character’s words gushed forth before she could keep up. 

“This is not a fight I plan on losing.” 

She had won this round. 

End of Chapter IX. 

December 1

As it turned out, Emily’s neighbours were certainly not serial killers, despite their suspicious duffel bags. Her stress baking also proved its importance in her post-novel relief phase—what was left of her baking, of course. 

Incessant buzzing from her table. She leaned over the blue screen, pulse in her ears. Her cheeks were sleet, knuckles cracking. This was it. Make or break. 

Great work Emily--A breath out--Loved the pacing.--Just wait until you hear about the pace at which I wrote it--By the way, I really loved that twist you included in the subplot. Serial killers in Industrial Revolution England, who knew?

Emily smiled to herself. Exactly; who knew?

Anyways, I look forward to meeting with you and going over some corrections. You may want to consider renaming your deuteragonist--awfully close to your name, but we’ll work on that later. See you shortly. 

(p.s. I look forward to reading your thesis in a few months. I know you always put a lot of time into your writing). -C. Miranda. 

It seemed that she would soon be needing to record a few more true crime documentaries. But the thesis would be a problem for another day. 

Most importantly, Emily was gloriously impartial to the manuscript which she had produced. The piece was certainly not her favourite, nor did she expect that it ever would be. But she also didn’t hate it. So the manuscript was messy, littered with errors, maybe even unlikeable. But it existed. It was one more tangible PDF file overflowing with her ideas. It was all hers. 

Emily loved writing, and did not love writing To-Do Lists. She didn’t love true crime, or working out, or doing her nails. She loved to write. And she figured that maybe there was a mystery novel in her future. Murder at the Local Gym...though perhaps a touch on-the-nose. No expectations to meet, no deadlines to adhere to. Words which would permit themselves to exist, whether her prose was lopsided, splotchy, or at times half-hearted. Even now she felt the paragraphs tumbling out of her. 

She pried open her laptop, which seemed to purr awake, tame. An inviting spark, curious. Her cursor drifted to the PDF file of her manuscript. The first of many more, perhaps. Penning the final chapter had felt so freeing, so final. It had burst out of her without regard to opinion, doubt, or a spare second of looking back. She wondered if it would feel the same to read. Her trembling gaze set itself toward the story’s end, eyes scrolling, sprinting, then at once, smiling. 

The boy overlooked the sooty streets of London, hearing the cries of the ill-fated crooks as they were dragged away. Justice had been served. No one would be subject to their cruelty again. He was flush with vivacity, more determined than ever. All of his wavering and worry had been worth it in the end. Overlooking the scene, he knew that his focus would not waver. Not so long as his work filled him with such arduous ardor—both fear and freedom. He would continue to fight his battles if it meant relishing this feeling. It was, after all, what he loved most. 

THE END

For now.