Tiny Lookalike (1)

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How do so many authors do this? How can all of the popular writers create stories without getting lost in everything else going on around them? Without drowning in the belief that it will never be good enough? Or in the impending fear that they’re letting down their readers? 

These are the questions that are swirling through my head as I stare blankly at the notebook in front of me. I’m surrounded by small notes and ideas of how the story should go, but I still glare at the blank pages, mind reeling. 

Ever so slowly, I pick up the blue pen and pop another pink starburst into my mouth, leaving all the other colors in the bag. I found that starbursts usually help me focus on the task at hand, giving me that wave of energy I need . But right now, all I can focus on is the quiet buzzing coming from the washer in the other room.

The buzzing has been like that for a few days now. I really ought to get that fixed. Glancing at the empty closet,  I mentally make a list of things I “ought” to do. Like laundry. I’ve been running the same load for three days, mostly because I keep forgetting to change it, too much to do. Then it gets moldy and starts to smell and I have to redo the load again.

I should also wash some dishes while I’m at it. My sink is filled with dirty dishes that are even starting to mold. Mother always told me I should get a dishwasher because of how lazy I can get. Honestly, I haven’t spoken to her for weeks. I should give her a call soon. 

So my to-do list now has two, three, four things on it… My eyes fall back on the empty pages in front of me and my stomach drops. Right. My draft should definitely be at the top of that list. So make that five things.

I lean forward and quickly scribble on the paper three simple words: “Who are you?” An important question for anyone to know, especially when writing a character. Who is she? What does she stand for? Why is she here? 

After a long pause, I finally let the heavy feeling win and close my notebook, pushing it aside. It’s official. The great Iris Cane is going to procrastinate another day for her book. That was on me for actually expecting to write an entire page today. I should have known better. It took me an entire month to write a few pages before sending it in to my editor. 

Sluggishly, I push my chair back and stretch, my shoulders popping. That’s not good. Glancing up at my Hello Kitty clock, I frown when it reads 12:30. There’s no way I’ve only been writing for thirty minutes, right? Standing, I decide it’s best if I were to take a break and go back to writing later. 

If I’ve only been working for thirty minutes, it didn’t seem fair to be done for the day. So that’s what I do. I take a break, working on the most mundane tasks; chores that didn’t actually matter. Like organizing my bookshelf, choosing my outfit for tomorrow, and checking the mail. Anything to avoid doing actual work.

I freeze at the mailbox, staring down at an ominous doll staring blankly back at me. Besides her porcelain skin and unsettling smile, she looked uncannily just like me. She sat up inside the mailbox, her bow-shaped lips painted delicately on her face. Her glassy blue eyes eerily matched my exact shade, along with the inky black hair that cascaded down her back. It was obvious that whoever made her took a lot of time to perfect her details. Maybe a fan?

My eyes dropped to mini-me’s hand, that tightly gripped a small metal pocketwatch, engraved with a heart on the cover. Feeling nauseated, I carefully pulled it from her grip, the lid opened with a slight creak, rusted from old age. As if frozen in time, the hands on its face didn’t move, both stuck at twelve o'clock. 

I study the doll closely, my fingers carefully making its way through her hair. My mind raced at the question of who could have made such a stunning doll. Even though I knew that my last book sold over a million copies, I still found it hard to believe that I actually had fans, especially ones with such talent. I run my finger tenderly over the doll’s face, my mind wandering. Making dolls requires a lot of focus. I wonder if I could make one myself. But how does someone make a doll?

I bring the doll and the rest of the mail back into the house. Carefully, I place the  mini-me on the top shelf in the living room so she can stare down at me as a reminder. This is my hobby shelf, and with her also sat a half-built LEGO set, a messed-up pair of gelatin nails, and a bunch of knotted-up wigs that haven't been touched for a year and a half. Shows how far I’m going to get with this hobby.

Glancing back at the clock, I paused, seeing that both hands were still at the top. That’s… odd. Even after all that cleaning, it was still 12:30. Maybe my perspective of time really is just that fucked up. Whatever. I'll just go to bed to kill time. I do that a lot. Try to waste the day away.

Passing my writing desk sends a sudden, heavy feeling of guilt and dread shooting through me. Mom’s probably right. Perhaps I really am just too lazy to be a successful author. I procrastinate too much, can’t focus on one thing for my life, and I’m always missing my deadlines despite how much time I’m given. Climbing under the silk covers, I close my eyes and try to block out those pesky thoughts. It doesn’t matter. Living in that house with her, I lost all my motivation to make her proud anyway. I lost my mind with her a while ago.