My latest attempt at actually writing.

Title: Madison Brighton, Novelist.
By: Me.


Prologue:

Everytime I sit down to write my novel that's been building up in my mind for the past three years, I just can't seem to find the appropriate words. Nothing comes to mind, and it's utterly sad. The characters, the plot, the setting-I have them all planned out, yet I can't seem to write those first words. It's like there's a block set in my way of writing it, like I need to write this first before I can pen that novel. And it's utterly depressing.

How horrible is it that writing should prove to be so difficult, that words can't seem to find their substance-that my pen shouldn't make the phrases I long to write? It's the cruelty of a writer, not being able to express yourself, and I'm being honest when I say that. Writing has always come so easily to me, but right now, it looks absolutely dismal.

I remember the first graded story I ever shared with anyone. It was my Creative Writing assignment in High School, the teacher, he was a stickler for grammar and sentence structure even though it was Creative Writing; I digress, I wrote about a woman I observed at the bookstore, and it received an A+. He then had the nerve to write at the top of the paper in huge, red, capital letters 'YOU'LL BE FAMOUS, I JUST HAVE THE GUT FEELING. NEVER STOP WRITING LIKE THIS'. A year and a half later, I published that observation, and it made me a little money and famous to boot.

I'm feeling rather Nostalgic. I dedicated that book to him, seeing as how he swore I would be famous, and he put it on the booklist he hands out to his students. I was astounded when he contacted me and asked me to speak before his class. Of course I went back to my old High School and gave the 'Keep at it, don't give up, just be who you are' speech. It was boring to me.

My second and third novel, well, they were what we'd call 'rebound books'. I wrote them after failed relationships. One of them being a failed marriage. He told me I was married to the book rather than being married to him.

He was right, on so many levels.

Maddie placed her pen aside and began rubbing her left hand. It had been quite the longest time since she had last penned anything. She felt that maybe by freewriting she would be able to begin her story, but what she had, after looking at the pages before her, was the beginning of her autobiography. It was yet again, a failure at attempting to begin her novel.

Just then, the grandfather clock in the livingroom chimed seven times, and her stomach growled. Placing her hands on the desk, she pushed herself up from her seat and the black labrador retriever in the corner lifted his head and watched as his master left the study and walked toward the kitchen.

Upon arriving in the kitchen, Madison began rummaging through the cabinets to look for Samson's food. When she pulled out the food, she noticed her cat, Juliet was on the cabinet now. Sighing, she poured her cat milk and filled up her dog's bowl.

She then reached for the phone and pushed speed dial three. She knew the voice on the other end so well...and she would dial this number every night, and every night, her over analyzing mother would call and berate her for not going out and trying to meet someone new, and she would spend an hour of her life, arguing with the lady on the other end of the phone, who thought, that just because she had a degree in Psychology, she could psyco-analyze her daughter and the failed relationships.

"Tony Wok, take out delivery." The asian voice said.

Ah, Tony, her love. The man that makes her food.