Page 1 of Change

Chapter One

Miles

Candlelight

My best work manifested when I wrote alone in the darkness. That meant, in this instance, that despite being happy to live with Bianca, I’d taken the week to return to my apartment.

I did let her know, at least, in a way that she approved.

I didn’t get it though. I still couldn’t believe last time had resulted in such a terrible misunderstanding. Despite being an author of renown and more than capable of relaying a message on paper, I still needed a touch more than a thoughtfully crafted handwritten word for Bianca to understand my intentions.

I wasn’t sure why; the greatest authors were always able to convey the most important part of their messages within two hundred words or less.

It didn’t matter. We’d made up, and then I even made a cake for her—and I was almost one hundred percent positive that it was far better than anything Finn had done.

So I considered it to be great progress when she wasn’t angry that I went to my own apartment. In fact, things were progressing quite nicely between Bianca and myself. Since our adventure together, we understood each other perfectly.

But I could think about all that later. Now it was time to get to work.

I chewed on the end of my pen as I stared down at the open notebook. It was dusk, and the only light came from the bay window—which I was facing—and the oil lantern at the corner of my desk. Most authors used computers these days—and electricity. But there was something pure and inspiring about working the craft old-school.

Well, mostly old-school.

I still couldn’t give up the convenience of college-ruled paper and free-flowing ink. Despite really trying, I could never get the hang of writing on parchment and using a feathered pen.

Still, this should be inspiring enough (so long as I stopped thinking about Bianca and wondering what she was doing right now). My lukewarm tea was ready beside me, and the picturesque gardens were still slightly visible outside my penthouse window. A true genius could thrive in such conditions. The words would flow, and I would finally live in a time where I would achieve my dream: a bestselling rank acquiredbeforemy death.

Not that I’d ever gotten a bestseller ranking after death. But that wasn’t the point.

But I wouldn’t give up. This time, I had a plan, and the framework had all been laid out!

I coulddothis.

I checked the clock across the room—the only functional thing on my sofa table besides the open containers of Chinese takeout. I couldn’t read the time due to the collection of crumbled-up newspapers and a tall tower of red Solo cups littering the space.

Damn it, what time was it now? I couldn’t even tell, but it felt like I’d been here forever. But in that case, why was it taking the sun so long to set? I was hungry, but I’d promised myself not to eat before the premise of my story was set.

See, I was self-aware. Success was all about setting smaller, achievable goals and rewarding yourself every five hundred words.

How much had I done already?

Once upon a time, there was a fairy princess. She was sad because she’d been kidnapped by an evil king and queen when she was a child. She’d been locked away, left to tend to a garden in her solitude. The dragon

I groaned, as I leaned back in my seat and rested the back of my head on my chair. This wasn’t even close to being a masterpiece.

Besides, I’d written about dragons before. It was a compelling story about a princess and the dragon she’d been sent to slay, and their joint adventures to defeat an evil force threatening the realm. Ifthatstory didn’t sell, then why would this one?

No one appreciated my art.

Maybe if I took a break—maybe ate dinner—I’d come back refreshed and able to think more clearly.

I jumped to my feet and pulled out my phone. A man couldn’t create wondrous worlds on an empty stomach. First, pizza. Then maybe an episode—or two—of that drama I’d been neglecting.

I’d be full of ideas then.

But first I’d text Bianca.

Me:Hey, do you want to come over for dinner?