Chronicles of a Fictional Writer

This morning is bound to be as sluggish as any other, so why bother?, thought Hope Joy, as she lay scrutinizing her baby-blue ceiling. Hope was usually in a black mood for about 3 hours after she woke up, which then became frustraton, which then led to ignorance as the day closed. She had one of 'those' attitudes. 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Simmon's rock laying just off the shore, the invisible wind streaming through the ruins that sat atop it. Opening her eyes a little wider, she turned her head to look properly.

Sometimes, when she was a little girl, she had imagined stories about the people that could have lived in that tiny half-castle. Of course, Hope didn't know anything about the real people that had inhabited the small island, but she didn't care. It had been fun to make-believe.

This natural affinity with creativity had, obviously, started her writing career - even if it wasn't a career yet. Being an aspiring writer at the young age of 17 had it's highlights, but at the moment she was attempting to juggle a preferred, ideal life with her real one.

Hope tiredly reminded herself that a book wouldn', couldn't write itself, and swung her legs from under the safe, warm duvet. She could hear the wind battering and screaming relentlessly outside her window, and was immediately thankful for her brother's insulation efforts.

Wrapped up in a woollen dressing gown, Hope plodded down the creaking spiral staircase and into the centre of the front room, her feet rubbing softly in the threadbare carpet.

She wandered, still listless from sleep, over into the joint-kitchen, sliding the kettle onto the aga and jamming a few slices into the second-hand toaster as she did so. Here in the kitchen were hand-made wooden counter-tops and dark, worn floorboards. It gave a rustic and cosy feeling to the place, she thought.

As you can probably tell, Hope's cottage isn't the epitome of modern dwellings, but she considers it to suit her needs just fine - mainly writing, sleeping and eating. Not much furniture was needed either, but she had decided to keep with the aged theme of the house and buy things that came with a little bit of background. Plus, it was cheaper.

Whilst she waited for the kettle to boil and the toast to....well...toast, she watched the sea gloomily out of one of the simple windows, pondering.

An advantage of being a writer that lives on the doorstep of the ocean is plentiful inspiration. Hope Joy's novel was mid-way through being written, a story of a deceitful heros and truthful villains, the perfect adventure tale. However, all those months of slavery to her pen had drained her mentally, and she was now quite dry. So, in her unique and sulking way of doing things, Hope had spent most days just sitting on the sofa, trying to conjure scenes that evidently did not wish to be conjured...

One of her main problems was that of character. She knew how her protagonist, Jude Ѐvre-Noir, looked, and how he sounded, but she knew barely anything about his personality. Sure, he could be rash, and bold, and theatrical sometimes, but what was he really like? Was he truly that shallow?

No-matter how much she kicked or screamed or wailed at herself, it was frankly impossible to get inside his mind, like something was locking her out.

"I'm the damn writer, I'm supposed to know! Idiot!" She would cry at no-one in particular. Her isolation from family members or local people was obviously taking effect. Freedom, she had called it in the beginning, just 2 years ago.

Freedom, however, was not all it was cut out to be.

The End

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