Once, at the beginning of my process for this final book, the wall chart had been full and complete—my masterpiece if you will. I’d filled out index card after index card, a whirlwind of energy and inspiration making the rapid handwriting almost illegible.
The ideas had flowed so quickly it felt as if I possessed the magic practiced by several of my characters, like lightning flowing from my heart and brain and out through my fingertips.
But that was years ago, and those cards had long since been ripped down and shredded. Replacing them with entirely new scenes and turning points was more like slow-moving sludge than lightning.
Nothing felt right. Nothing worked. Not like my original story outline. Which was no longer an option. I had to find a new way to finish the series. Somehow.
Just thinking about changing the ending I’d been planning since book one got my blood boiling.
Grabbing a pencil from the desktop, I hurled it at the chart, missed, and watched as it splintered against the stone wall with a sharp crack.
“I see everything’s going swimmingly in here,” Mrs. Potts quipped as she entered the room and spotted the pencil carnage. “What did that poor, innocent writing instrument ever do to you?”
I turned, giving her a sheepish smile. “Well it’s not creating brilliant books, that’s for sure.”
She set the tray bearing my food on the edge of the desk. “I hope you’ve got it all out of your system now—or should I take this back downstairs to protect the fine china?”
“Don’t you dare. I’m starved.” I grabbed the sandwich from the plate and took a big bite. After chewing and swallowing I looked back at her. “Thanks for bringing up supper.”
“Of course, dear. It’s good to see you in here again. When Harrison told me the light was on in your tower, I literally clapped.”
“Yeah, well, you may want to hold your applause. I’ve been up here for hours and haven’t written a thing.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “You know what I’m going to say…”
“I know. So don’t bother.”
Mrs. Potts continued anyway, as I knew she would. “The words don’t come because you have no love in your heart.”
I snorted. “Loveis a lie. It’s the biggest fairy tale ever written.”
Mrs. Potts made a tut-tut noise. “Love is the truest thing there is. With an attitude like that, you’re going to wind up alone.”
“Sounds fantastic. I’m better off alone.”
“You don’t mean that. It’s that girl. Claudia.She did this.” She gestured vigorously as she spoke, lending her a strong resemblance to a flustered mother hen. “I could wring her skinny neck. I never liked her. I knew she was trouble since the first time I laid eyes on her.”
“I remember. And Idon’twant to talk about it.”
In all the articles I’d read about curing writer’s block, there hadn’t been one mention of replaying old heartbreak being helpful.
And if I spent too much time thinking about what Claudia had done, there wouldn’t be an intact pencil—or dish—within a ten-mile radius.
“Well, maybe youshouldtalk about it with someone,” Mrs. Potts said in a casual tone as if she were offering me mustard for my sandwich. “Maybe it would help you move on.”
“I have moved on.”
“You haven’t had a woman in your life since.”
“That’s not true. I have you, and Phoebe and Simone,” I said, naming my household staff members.
She gave me a scolding look. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. You loved her, and she broke your heart. You know, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I haven’t insisted you see someone sooner.”
“Are you talking about therapy? No thank you.”
“Well then a friend. Your brother. Someone. All I know is the words will never flow until you release the iron grip you’re keeping on your heart. Your writingcomesfrom the heart, and right now it’s dying from strangulation.”
“My writing comes from years of studying the craft, and practice, and a boneyard full of rejected manuscripts,” I corrected. “As for Claudia, I’m over her. I’vebeenover her. Complete and utter betrayal will do that for you.”
