Book.

 Part One; Chapter One

I took one wary glance at the graceful font of the typed up page in my clumsy hands, and knew, without a doubt, that I was thoroughly and irrevocably screwed.

I suppose it shouldn’t have come as such a shock. If there was one thing more permanently scrawled on the insides of my brain other than the reality of my failures as a writer, it was the simple, lurking veracity of Natalie Moss’ glaring success.

I read it through quickly, the characters and their situation springing forth and becoming real, relatable people whether I liked it or not. Once, twice, thrice over, praying that there would be something legitimately negative that I could comment on without sounding like the hypercritical cynic that I totally was. My head was starting to hurt from the brilliant description and deep characters portrayed within the paper. Any and all inklings of hope were lost after I had meticulously picked apart every glorious sentence, discovering nothing less than literary perfection and the vague need for an aspirin. I just had to face it--her writing was spectacular.

And mine was not.

It wasn't that I couldn't write well. I could. Very well, in fact. What was my problem then, you ask? It certainly was not procrastination; no, the near three hundred documents--finished documents, might I add--on my laptop computer proved my insurmountable loyalty to my trade. I was not lazy, nor was I born with an overly skittish mind, so that surely couldn't have been my excuse. The surroundings in my town were absolutely impeccable for writing--slow paced and quiet--no complaints there. I had no siblings or pets to distract me. My parents weren’t a bother. My schoolwork was kept at a steady, feasible amount each day.

So… what was it?

"How do you come up with this stuff?" I said to Natalie across the chipped coffee table of her living room, at the end of my rope on what do and how to do it with my own little, unimportant string of bland storylines.

Natalie gave me an odd expression, her eyebrow arching and her mouth twitching into an awkward smirk.

"What?" She replied, giggling a bit. She sat back in her beanbag out of surprise. "I guess I just think of it, you know?”

This is the answer that I was most annoyed with. Yes, I knew. Of course I knew where thoughts originated. What if my mind wasn't as innovative as hers? That's hardly fair, for Natalie to get all of the genius ideas and easy publishing experiences, while I dangled helplessly over my self-inflicted ocean of poor plotlines and dull characters.

Looking back, I supposed that I was being a tad childish, but I firmly held a grudge against anyone who dared to be blessed with a more advanced brand of creativity than I.

"So, what'd you all think of it?" Natalie questioned sheepishly.

Please.

There was no reason for her to be so nervous about our reactions to her book. They had always been the same, positive responses, brimming with encouraging exclamations of her utter brilliance. In all honesty, I was a little confused as to why Natalie was a member of this group anyways, seeing that she had already published a thriving novel. These little sections of writing were explained to be part of a much-requested sequel, but I saw nothing we (Mara, Cassie, and I) could really do to help her any. She was more literarily superior than all the rest of our comparatively simple minds combined.

“Wow, Natalie,” Cassie’s excessively-Scandinavian blue eyes were wide as she looked from Natalie, to the page in her hands, and back again in sickeningly reverent awe. I rolled my eyes, fiddling with one of the innumerable bracelets wrapped around my wrist. “This… this is really great.”