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"YOU NEED TO FIX THIS, ᴇʟᴇᴀɴᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʀᴇᴀᴜx." My editor reports, staring at me through the zoom call. "To put it simply... it's shit."
I scoff as my face falls in my hands, "That's very nice of you, thank you."
"I don't know what's going on, the first book was amazing! The epilogue needs to be just as good."
I tilt my head, "Don't you think I'm trying? I've tried Elizabeth! I've had no inspiration for the past two months."
"Well, I'm an editor so I can't help with the plot but... Eleanor, it's been eight months since your last book, your fans are getting angry." She runs a hand through her greying blonde hair.
"I'll give you- I'll give a good book in four months. Give me four months. Can you do that? S'il te plaît? Please?" At this point, I might as well be on my knees, begging.
She sighs deeply. "Okay - okay. Four months. That is it. If you don't have a book after that, we're gonna have to take some things into consideration." You'll be in deep shit. "Don't do it with half your heart just because you need something in four months. Focus. Find inspiration. Do something. Fix this."
Who works for who here? "I will, Elizabeth. You have to trust me."
"Good. Keep in touch."
Without replying, I slam my laptop shut in frustration. Eight months ago, I wrote the book 'To Be Or Not To Be,' a bestseller all across the world. The first part of a trilogy; it was a forbidden romance in a world of vampires and witches. Now, fans are eager for the second book, and I have absolutely no idea what to write it about. I have a severe case of writers block. I've had it for the past two months. I don't know what to do.
I stare out my window, at the Eiffel Tower standing in all of it's glory, the bright sun shining through, making my brown eyes hazel. From my high-rise apartment, I get a view of all the best parts of Paris. I check my Daniel Klein watch. "Merde," I mumble and jump out of my chair.
I head to my bedroom. Walking around Paris in gym wear, or something remotely comfortable is socially unacceptable in the city of lights, so I usually wear skirts or jeans and pair them with long tops. This time, I settle for a black pencil skirt which goes until my mid-thigh and a blue shirt with the first few and last few undone so I can tuck half of it in to my skirt, trying to style it. I'm an author, not a stylist.
I run my fingers through my hair a few times, not bothering to actually brush it. I rest my sunglasses on top of my head and hop while I put on knee length, white heels. Satisfied with my outfit, I head out. The café I'm supposed to go to is a five minute walk from my apartment, and I love walking around Paris, even though I know all of the roads by heart. There's something refreshing but familiar about these streets - after all - it's where I grew up.
