Besides, the blank page was hardly her nemesis. It was her companion—like her wife. Something that, more often than not, brought out the best in her. On her happiest days, Jane knew that all she needed in this life was her wife and something to write on. She didn’t need all the rest. She didn’t need a boat load of friends and acquaintances. She didn’t need to make the kind of money writers in mainstream genres did. She certainly didn’t need publication days and the anxiety they provoked. The vulnerability of putting her work out there for review and waiting for the first opinion that would tear it to shreds. When it came down to it, all she needed was to sit in this very chair, let her fingers hover over the keyboard, and let the words flow out.

It wasn’t an easy state to be in, because writing always equaled tension, a discomfort with what was happening—the transfer from brain, through fingers, onto the page. It wasn’t a state she could linger in, slip in and out of casually, throughout the day, but it was something she needed for her survival. Without writing, Jane was sure, she would slowly go insane.

So she straightened her back, got her hands into position, and stared at the blank page in front of her. The page itself wasn’t intimidating. If anything, it stood for a new beginning. For the chance of something great. Something formerly nonexistent. Something she could invent. The real challenge lay in the translation of the emotions inside of her onto that page. And the story with which to convey them. Jane didn’t have a story yet. Not one she felt excited enough to start. She had documents filled to the brim with story ideas, but none of them had been tugging at her sleeve of late. None of them had burst open and transformed into the enthusiasm needed to start a new book. But this moment wasn’t about a new book. That would come later. The reason she sat in front of her computer was to reacquaint herself with the best side of her. Her writer side. To go through the motions. To see words appear on the screen—unmistakably black on white. To channel some of the negative energy that had been building up inside of her since the last time she’d written a full sentence. Whether she felt inadequate or not, or even capable of being a writer anymore, didn’t matter. As soon as her fingers touched down on that keyboard, she would be a writer again. She would be Jane Quinn again.