THE WORDS ARE FUZZY, then they are sharp again,
I can't keep an angle; they keep dancing— moving from end to end, from edge to edge.
It's almost white, then it's not again.
This is ridiculous, everything is. Life is.
I'm sleep-deprived— my eyes have grown weary with bags, it's a wonder how I still keep my sight.
I barely get anything down, not even a damn peanut butter, and that's my favorite go-to snack.
It's like my life is stuck in a pedestrian cycle.
Nothing makes sense. Not when Kylie Abramson is breathing fire down your neck.
'Look, Malia, the deadline was last week. We cannot afford to push this any further. That dick publisher, Adamson, don't even get me started with him— he's literally chocking me for answers.' Her voice is sharp on a normal basis; put that on a phone's speaker, and your worst nightmare is awakened.
I emit a breath I didn't even know I was holding,
'I know, I know. But— I'm stuck, Kylie. I'm really stuck. Nothing makes sense, everything I write feels flat, like it leads nowhere.' I say pushing the piles of papers on my desk to the floor.
She scoffs, like... really scoffs.
That rude bitch!
'Stuck?' she says like she can't believe such a word exists 'Malia, you've written three bestsellers. Three consecutive bestsellers. Writer's block isn't an excuse anymore. you have readers waiting. The momentum is fading. Do you like... want to fade into obscurity?'
'Of course not! But this time is different, Kylie. The ideas aren't coming, I need more time.'
'More time? There's no mor— we've already extended twice. If we don't act soon, we will lose the deal. Do you get that? They'll pull the plug on this and your next book.'
I look to the ceiling tugging at a handful of my hair, this is utter misery, I'm going to go insane at this point. Worse, worry, starve, and cry to my own death.
I sigh, 'It's not just the deadline, okay? It's like— like I can't see the story. I keep trying, but nothing feels right.'
There's subtle silence filled with crinkly ruffles from the other end, then her screech lowers a tad, 'You don't have the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment. Just write something. Anything. We can edit it later.'
'I can't. I won't turn in something half-baked to meet a deadline. It's my name on the cover, not yours.' My voice, flat.
Kylie exhales sharply, losing it. 'Listen, Malia, I'm not trying to be the bad guy here, but you have one Job: write. If you want to keep being the brilliant writer everyone knows, you need to pull through. Now. Otherwise... it's over.'
'That's what you don't understand. I'm not sure I can.'
'You can. And you will. I'm done with this conversation; I hope you are too. I'll call again later. Figure something out.' And the line goes... three beeps, then she's off.
The air becomes flint.
The silence becomes dreary.
I don't think about anything. I can't. Nothing's coming or staying anyway, it's all utter blandness.
Impulsively, I charge straight for my bed and, like a shameless whelp, I collapse onto the sheets, stretching my limbs as far as they can reach.
I'll try to sleep for now; maybe something will come later.
Otherwise,
To hell with Kylie Abramson and her bitchy ass rotten attitude.