“I get that.” Caitlin’s voice didn’t rise a fraction. “Because the truth can be uncomfortable. It was just some friendly advice. I hope you take it that way.” Caitlin grinned briefly. “I’d best get going. See you soon.” Then, after acting as if she were the greatest, all-knowing lesbian in Sydney, Caitlin had the audacity to put her hands on Annie’s shoulders and peck her on the cheek.

Chapter Fourteen

Jane straightened her spine, lowered her shoulders, and let her fingers hover over the keyboard. She remembered the long, grueling hours of typing lessons she’d taken once she’d gotten serious about becoming a writer. Endless, repetitive drills of pushing in the same keys until her muscle memory could take over and she didn’t have to think about where a particular key was located on her keyboard anymore.

She had gone through the trouble because she wanted to be a faster and more accurate typist. Fat load of good that did her now. Although, admittedly, it had helped to be able to type lightning fast when she was on a roll and her ultra-fast fingers still had trouble keeping up with the speed at which the sentences formed in her brain.

But those times seemed to belong to another lifetime. Right then, her fingers just hovered; they didn’t touch down on any keys because Jane had nothing to say. At least that was what it felt like. Her brain felt empty to the extent that she believed she might have finally reached the point that any fiction writer dreads: she had used up all her words. All the stories she had wanted to tell in her lifetime, had been told.

By now, Jane knew all the tricks to get her ass in the chair and just do the work. As soon as she got up, she harnessed her precious morning energy and started writing. She used writing sprints and short, mindless breaks and long periods off the internet to her advantage. She had fashioned a routine that she believed would serve her for the rest of her life. So why was it letting her down now? She was doing everything right, yet the words refused to come.

Perhaps she’d been lucky, blessed even, to never have been hit by a severe case of writer’s block. In fact, Jane had always been cocky enough to not even believe such a thing existed. She had written millions of words over the years and as soon as one book was finished, she started on the next—no need for a rejuvenating break at all. Why take the time if it wasn’t necessary?

Maybe her hubris was catching up with her and this was payback for all the times she’d rolled her eyes when she’d seen a fellow writer complain about writer’s block on Facebook.