Sanity // s.m. [IN EDITING]

[14]

(btw the Carter in this update is NOT Carter Reynolds, just to avoid confusion)

Elliot

***

I was struggling with writer's block.

A few days before Shawn ended up in New York, I was working on a sequel to my novel I wrote a few months ago, Cardboard Boxes.

It was about a girl who moved a lot because her dad was in the Air Force, and the kind boy who always helped her with the boxes no matter where she was going or where he was. The story ended with her moving to a different country, away from the boy for good.

I wanted the sequel to be about how they see each other again, rekindling their love for each other. But so far, all I have typed out on my formerly blank computer screen were the words, fuck love, it ends when it ends.

Honestly it's just really hard to write when I'm feeling nothing but anger. I'm already passed the part where it didn't feel real, and the part where I was sad about it, and the part where I missed the hell out of him, which is how I was feeling when I wrote three different novels at different times. But all I do when I'm angry is throw paint at a wall.

And besides, it's not like Shawn is the only person I've ever had feelings for. There were a few guys before him, and a few after, like the guy who lived across the hall from me when I was living in an apartment uptown. I wrote lots of books when I was crushing on them, or missing them or feeling sad about them. Shawn shouldn't be any different, but he was.

The books I wrote when I was feeling the things Shawn made me feel were the only ones that became bestsellers. It's like he has all this power over my career and I'm just his little puppet. The puppet that played him, too, should I add.

I guess I kind of know what it feels like now, I guess. To be left behind for something better.

I stare at my computer screen while sipping my coffee until I ran out, then clicked backspace until every word on the screen disappeared, then I just sigh and try to think about how to start this.

Just as I was beginning to type something really lame I would most likely veto, a low voice cuts into my thoughts.

"Would you like another coffee?" the man asks, who seemed about my age or a little older. He had dark, wavy hair and green eyes, which looked really good with his navy blue shirt and kakis. He was wearing an apron with the name of the coffee shop on it, looking new, as if he never makes any spills. And I think I heard an accent.

"Um," I say nervously, "I actually think I'm about to leave."

"What's that you're writing?" he asks, moving behind me to see my computer screen. Yeah, he was definitely Irish.

"Oh, um, actually it's nothing," I say. "It's literally nothing because I can't come up with anything."

"Are you writing a novel?" he asks curiously, his plump lips pressing together in a thin line.

"More like a sequel," I shrug.

"A sequel? To what? Anything I might've heard of?" He was starting to sound less like a caring waiter who really wanted a tip and more like an actual human being who was generally interested in what I was doing.