blackheads.
“What are you doing?” L’il demanded.
“I’ve got writer’s block.”
“There’s no such thing as writer’s block,” she proclaimed. “If you can’t write it’s because you don’t have anything to say. Or you’re avoiding something.”
“Hmph,” I said, squeezing my skin, wondering if maybe I just wasn’t a writer after all.
“Don’t do that,” L’il yelped. “You’ll only make it worse. Why don’t you go for a walk or something?”
So I did. And I knew exactly where to go. Down to Samantha’s neighborhood, where I’d spotted the vintage store on Seventh Avenue.
I catch my reflection in a plate-glass window and stop to admire the robe. I hope it will bring me good luck and I’ll be able to write. I’m getting nervous. I don’t want to end up in Viktor’s 99.9 percent of failed students.
“My Lord!” L’il exclaims. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I feel like something the cat dragged in. But look what I got.” I spin around to show off my new purchase.
L’il appears doubtful, and I realize how flaky I must seem, shopping instead of writing. Why do I keep evading my work? Is it because I’m afraid of being confronted by my lack of abilities?
I collapse onto the love seat and gently ease off my sandals. “It was about fifty blocks away and my feet are killing me. But it was worth it,” I add, trying to convince myself.
“I finished my poem,” L’il says casually.
I smile, biting back envy. Am I the only one who has to struggle? L’il doesn’t seem to labor at all. But that’s probably because she’s way more talented.
“And I got some Chinese food, too,” she says. “Moo shu pork. There’s plenty left over if you want some.”
“Oh, L’il. I don’t want to eat your food.”
“No need to stand on ceremony.” She shrugs. “Besides, you’ve got to eat. How can you work if you’re hungry?”
She’s right. And it will give me a few more minutes to put off writing.
L’il sits on my bed as I polish off the moo shu pork straight from the carton.
“Don’t you ever get scared?” I ask.
“Of what?” she says.
“Of not being good enough.”
“You mean at writing?” L’il asks.
I nod. “What if I’m the only one who thinks I can do it and no one else does? What if I’m completely fooling myself—”
“Oh, Carrie.” She smiles. “Don’t you know that every writer feels that way? Fear is part of the job.”
She picks up her towel to take a long bath, and while she’s in the bathroom, I manage to eke out one page, and then two. I type in a title, “Home.” I cross it out and write, “My New Home.” This somehow reminds me of Samantha Jones. I picture her in her four-poster bed, wearing fancy lingerie and eating chocolates, which, for some strange reason, is how I imagine she spends her weekends.
I push these thoughts out of my head and try to focus, but now the throbbing in my feet is overwhelming and I can’t concentrate for the pain.
“L’il?” I knock on the bathroom door. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“I don’t think so,” she calls out.
“Damn.” Peggy must have aspirin somewhere. “Can I come in?” I ask. L’il is in the shallow tub, under a soft pile of bubbles. I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I look around, my gaze resting on the closed door to Peggy’s bedroom.
Don’t do it, I think, remembering Peggy’s one final rule. We’re not allowed into her room. Ever. Under any circumstances. Her bedroom is strictly verboten.
I carefully open the door.
“What are you doing?” L’il shrieks, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel. Remnants of bubbles cling to her shoulders.
I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I’m only looking for aspirin. Peggy’s so cheap, she probably keeps the aspirin hidden in her room.”
“What if she realizes some of her aspirin is missing?”
“Even Peggy can’t be that crazy.” I push the door wider. “You’d have to be
“What are you doing?” L’il demanded.
“I’ve got writer’s block.”
“There’s no such thing as writer’s block,” she proclaimed. “If you can’t write it’s because you don’t have anything to say. Or you’re avoiding something.”
“Hmph,” I said, squeezing my skin, wondering if maybe I just wasn’t a writer after all.
“Don’t do that,” L’il yelped. “You’ll only make it worse. Why don’t you go for a walk or something?”
So I did. And I knew exactly where to go. Down to Samantha’s neighborhood, where I’d spotted the vintage store on Seventh Avenue.
I catch my reflection in a plate-glass window and stop to admire the robe. I hope it will bring me good luck and I’ll be able to write. I’m getting nervous. I don’t want to end up in Viktor’s 99.9 percent of failed students.
“My Lord!” L’il exclaims. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I feel like something the cat dragged in. But look what I got.” I spin around to show off my new purchase.
L’il appears doubtful, and I realize how flaky I must seem, shopping instead of writing. Why do I keep evading my work? Is it because I’m afraid of being confronted by my lack of abilities?
I collapse onto the love seat and gently ease off my sandals. “It was about fifty blocks away and my feet are killing me. But it was worth it,” I add, trying to convince myself.
“I finished my poem,” L’il says casually.
I smile, biting back envy. Am I the only one who has to struggle? L’il doesn’t seem to labor at all. But that’s probably because she’s way more talented.
“And I got some Chinese food, too,” she says. “Moo shu pork. There’s plenty left over if you want some.”
“Oh, L’il. I don’t want to eat your food.”
“No need to stand on ceremony.” She shrugs. “Besides, you’ve got to eat. How can you work if you’re hungry?”
She’s right. And it will give me a few more minutes to put off writing.
L’il sits on my bed as I polish off the moo shu pork straight from the carton.
“Don’t you ever get scared?” I ask.
“Of what?” she says.
“Of not being good enough.”
“You mean at writing?” L’il asks.
I nod. “What if I’m the only one who thinks I can do it and no one else does? What if I’m completely fooling myself—”
“Oh, Carrie.” She smiles. “Don’t you know that every writer feels that way? Fear is part of the job.”
She picks up her towel to take a long bath, and while she’s in the bathroom, I manage to eke out one page, and then two. I type in a title, “Home.” I cross it out and write, “My New Home.” This somehow reminds me of Samantha Jones. I picture her in her four-poster bed, wearing fancy lingerie and eating chocolates, which, for some strange reason, is how I imagine she spends her weekends.
I push these thoughts out of my head and try to focus, but now the throbbing in my feet is overwhelming and I can’t concentrate for the pain.
“L’il?” I knock on the bathroom door. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“I don’t think so,” she calls out.
“Damn.” Peggy must have aspirin somewhere. “Can I come in?” I ask. L’il is in the shallow tub, under a soft pile of bubbles. I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I look around, my gaze resting on the closed door to Peggy’s bedroom.
Don’t do it, I think, remembering Peggy’s one final rule. We’re not allowed into her room. Ever. Under any circumstances. Her bedroom is strictly verboten.
I carefully open the door.
“What are you doing?” L’il shrieks, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel. Remnants of bubbles cling to her shoulders.
I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I’m only looking for aspirin. Peggy’s so cheap, she probably keeps the aspirin hidden in her room.”
“What if she realizes some of her aspirin is missing?”
“Even Peggy can’t be that crazy.” I push the door wider. “You’d have to be
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