Page 35 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Thirty-Four

I once heard that every rough draft is perfect because all it needs to do is exist .

Unlike blank pages, words can be edited, sentences be rewritten, descriptions can be expanded or condensed.

But the idea must first be presented. It has to be written out, lain in its rawest form like the bones of a skeleton waiting assembly.

The itch is there, waiting to be scratched as my fingers hover over the keys, ready to spin a tale of wonder, but I have nothing to write.

Presently, I can’t even seem to tell myself a story.

Maybe I am a fraud.

Instead of focusing, instead of trying to figure out how I’d like to write this scene, my mind drifts back to Tristan and Dante as I glance at the collection of short stories, two very different men who overwhelm my senses as my thoughts swirl in my mind.

Tonight is the night of the Village Market event Gisella and I were invited to.

I get up from my seat to find the flyer, looking over the blue ombre paper with lights strung across the top as I sit back down.

As I read over the food and entertainment, my focus halts.

A beer garden. I’m not positive I even know what that is.

Naturally, I do what anyone does nowadays and type it into the search engine to find my answer.

An open-air establishment where beer is served.

That is not very much to go off of, and I feel a tug in my gut by the letdown.

A beer garden. I shift my weight as I sit back in my seat, daydreaming of an open area with elongated tables full of overgrown potted plants whose vines and leaves cover the surface and curl around an assortment of beer in small glasses.

I can see barrels of beer stacked off to the side, the strong smells of brews, florals, and spices overwhelming my nose.

Patrons are seated on aged but sturdy wooden benches while servers carry meals crafted from the garden itself.

As day turns into night, strings of lights overhead would illuminate to create a lively yet welcoming garden with live music tempting you to dance and drink, play and sing.

While such a thing isn’t typically my crowd, I can imagine the appeal.

Contentedly, I sigh, then quickly blink myself away from the daydream as it grows smaller in my mind. Again, I find myself procrastinating, lost in my thoughts as I find every little distraction as an excuse to avoid writing.

The blinking cursor seems so dramatic against the white screen of death, absent of what should be my manuscript if I had a shred of self-discipline.

I look at the flyer again and think of the friendly local man with the devilish grin. The dark features of his complexion, bronzed by the sun. The playfulness in his green eyes that captivated me with its sparkle. Just like that, I have once more descended into the depths of my illusions.

It isn’t as though I think my idea is no good. No, I just clearly have the attention span of a gnat.

As I try to ground myself back to my laptop, I click through my word documents to find my outline, hoping a quick reread will stir some kind of motivation from within me.

The candle flame flickers violently, clinging to life as a cool breeze curls through the open window, threatening to snuff it out.

The rose on my desk, once straightened and blooming, has begun wilting and drooping, yet somehow, it’s still holding its shape.

The shadow it casts against the wall looks oddly like a slender man hunched over in a boat, as if waiting patiently for the fish to bite.

I watch for a moment, entranced by the simple movement of the flame.

Then I realize that, once again, I have let my focus slip, pulled away from the task at hand.

My novel.

The idea of writing a psychological thriller had wrapped itself around my mind like a snake.

The premise, dark and twisted, teased me with its potential, drawing me into a web of intrigue and uncertainty.

But sitting here, staring at the blank page, trying to summon the words from the depths of my mind and release them with a touch of my fingers, has become somewhat of a thriller in itself—one of madness and frustration, a game of cat and mouse with my own thoughts.

I sit before my screen, fingers poised over the keys, but my mind strays like a lost soul wandering blindly through a thick fog.

Each time I try to focus, the words slip away, like shadows dissipating in the light.

I have an idea, I just can’t get it out of my head.

I can almost hear them whispering, just out of reach, tempting me with their secrets, too quiet for me to comprehend.

I glance at the clock, feeling its slow, inexorable tick in the pit of my stomach.

The hours have slipped by unnoticed, each second a reminder of my failure to escape the fog of my own distractions.

The story that once burned brightly in my mind now seems like a distant memory, as though the idea now belongs to someone else.

Perhaps it was meant for another mind to write.

One with more discipline than me.

I sigh, pushing my hair from my face. I am on the brink of giving up for the afternoon, throwing in the towel and perhaps trying again tomorrow. No magic will be created from these hands—not tonight, at least.

My gaze flits once more to the flyer, its cool blue color mocking the fog of distraction choking my mind.

With a quiet resignation, I push myself away from the desk, surrendering to the relentless pull of time.

The weight of the evening ahead settles over me, and I make my way toward the wardrobe, as though the act of choosing something to wear might somehow summon the will to focus.

I tell myself it’s only practical—find something flattering, something that will make the evening feel worthwhile.

But as I sift through the clothes, the quiet truth becomes clear: it’s just another distraction, another way to postpone the inevitable confrontation with an empty page that awaits me in the corner of the room.

Raking my fingers through my hair, I pull a skirt from the wardrobe and wander back over to the mirror hanging over my desk. I press it up against my body and look over my reflection.

I won’t let the weight of an unproductive day tarnish my evening.

Nor will I allow thoughts of Tristan and Dr. Shadow to linger, keeping me from being truly present in the moments to come.

I’m eager to enjoy the night with Gisella, to finally break free on a Saturday evening, to lose myself in the smooth, velvety cadence of that man’s voice.

His speech alone was enchanting and rich—I can only imagine what it sounds like when he sings.