Viola slammed her laptop shut with more force than necessary, she muttered, flopping back into the worn couch in her tiny writing nook, rubbing her temples.
The words weren’t coming.
Deadlines were closing in.
And her characters were being emotionally constipated assholes. Just like her real life.
A sharp knock at the front door had interrupted her third attempt at rewriting a chapter that refused to behave. The delivery guy had forgotten her coffee order again, her manuscript doc had crashed without saving, and she’d just finished snapping at Sam over text for breathing too loudly in her voice notes.
It was one of those days.
She sat in her baggy tee and boy shorts, hair in a half-falling bun, surrounded by cold coffee cups and crumpled pages, looking every bit like a creative warzo
