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LIFTING the pen, Cynthia scribbled down a few words. No, it was wrong. All wrong. She tried again. No success. It seemed that every time she managed to sit down to start on a story, all thoughts will flood her mind except for inspiration for a story.
It was very frustrating. Cynthia was on the verge of giving up. It was almost impossible for her to do it at this rate. Slamming her pen down on her notebook, Cynthia tore up and pages, snapped it shut and threw it to some unknown, dusty corner in her room.
The only novel she had managed to start was on the third chapter and all thoughts for the plot had left her mind. No matter how much she tried, nothing came to mind. Her brain was just an empty plot of land, devoid of anything, anything! Possible story lines came into mind, but everyone was different from each other, and Cynthia's brain hurt from trying to tie it in with a story she was currently writing, and more often than not it turned out illogical.
Realisation dawned on her, a phrase she overused way too many times in her stories. Maybe it was time for a change... maybe she should start writing short stories, this way to stem in the flow of ideas. With this thought in mind, Cynthia carelessly grabbed another blank notebook from the near toppling pile of books stacked haphazardly upon each other and started writing...
