One Chapter Ends

Chapter Seventeen

Half-snarling in frustration, Hazel jammed her finger on the backspace button furiously.

She decided that whoever had invented writer's block was an evil genius. It was like she had a giant whiteboard in her brain – no, her brain was the giant whiteboard – and she had the marker in her hand, but the blank whiteness of the board was overwhelming. Screw that – she couldn't even find the marker.

"Seven days to go," she told herself. Seven days until the open day, until she was going to read her work aloud for the first time. Of course, she would like there to actually be something on the paper when she stood up in front of all those people.

Just thinking about the possibility of not having anything to say made her forehead break out in a cold sweat – for multiple reasons – so she turned back to her laptop.

A white page glared at her, daring her to try and write another useless sentence.

Raking her hands through her dishevelled ponytail, Hazel closed her laptop. Tilting back in her chair, she closed her eyes and tried to visualise the story she wanted to write.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl in a tower...

Rapunzel had been done before. So had several twisted fairytale versions.

Forces of light fighting the forces of evil...

No. Too much like every fantasy novel she'd ever read.

A girl falling in love with a boy, but she's shy and he's a bad boy...

Was she completely and utterly moronic? Apparently, the answer was yes.

This wasn't working.

Getting up, she crossed the room and flopped down onto her bed, staring at the sliver of blue sky she could see through the window. It had seemed so easy to make the decision to be a writer, but it was moments like this that made her doubt she could actually do it. Go through with it. Really succeed with it. If she couldn't think of an idea to write about for her own open day, how was she supposed to come up with original ideas for her assignments next year at university?

Sometimes she wished she had an older – or even a younger – sibling to talk this through with. Someone who wasn't completely invested in her career success like her parents yet knew the whole situation, upside-down, inside-out.

A knock at her door provided a welcome distraction from her thoughts. "Yeah?" she called, propping herself up on her elbows.

Her dad poked his head in, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Hazel smiled – her mum hated when he did that, but he refused to stop. The first time he'd done it, he'd reminded her of Richard Harris' version of Albus Dumbledore, with the half-moon spectacles.

"Hey, Hazel Bee. How's it going in here?"

Her smile disappeared. "Crapoli."

"Crapoli, huh?" Edging inside, he closed the door and sat on her desk chair. "Anything I can help you with?"

She sighed. "Not really."

"Dads are pretty wise, you know. I probably have some sort of fatherly advice if you tell me what's up."

She huffed a laugh and launched into an explanation. "And I have no ideas," she finished, frowning at her doona. "None whatsoever. I have seven days, no ideas and a whole story to write."

"Hm. That is a problem." He was quiet for a bit, then said, "Did I ever tell you I had a friend called Henry at university?"

"No."