Another rejection letter, eighteenth in a row. Her last book was published in 1990. Post that, she barely managed to scribble down a few short stories in mediocre magazines. “One-hit wonder,” critics say.
Every night, she’d sit before her typewriter, scourging for words. But, the muse eludes her, refuses to show up. She digs through the dim corners of her mind, hopelessly awaits inspiration to strike again. Words are cruel; they’re making themselves scarce.
Fair-weather relations have long flown away. “It’s just writer’s block, don’t fret about it,” the loyal ones would say.
Meanwhile, alcohol and cigarettes keep her company.
Written for Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior