She hadn’t revisited Clara. She wasn’t sure what Clara was doing now. She wasn’t sure if she even cared. She wondered if Clara and Ben had got together, which is where the story was leading, but she couldn’t remember if they actually got there before her 50,000 words was up.
“It was a rubbish story anyway,” she told herself. “The only reason you wrote it was to see if you could find a way out of your own situation. A classic example of writing for you, not for your audience.”
She grimaced at the thought of someone else finding the story and reading it. One of the characters had been based on her former boss. That would definitely have been embarrassing for anyone else to see.
If not that, then what?
“I really can’t think of a single thing to write about,” she thought. Then berated herself for using the weasel word “really”.
“That word really has to depart from your vocabulary,” she told herself sternly, and then laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
“Tell me why you want to write then, if you have nothing to write about.” Her naggy voice was on fire today. “I mean most people write because they have a story they want to tell. You have no story. You have nothing at all. Are you enjoying being the tortured artist? Because it seems to me that’s what you’re turning into.”
“I have no idea why,” she replied.
“Well then my friend, why don’t you go away and think about that for a while? Maybe that will help you get unstuck.”