1. A Semi-Functioning Adult

                                    

                                          
Sarah
                          


                          
I'd started the day off as a mostly-fully-functioning, shoes-on-my-feet adult. 
                          
                I ended the day by letting myself into my house at a quarter past nine at night, arms full of cake decorating supplies whit my shoes hanging off my fingers. I let my shoes fall to the floor, dropping the tubes of icing and boxes of sugar flowers to the top of the shoe rack. As I lean back against the wall, I reach up a hand to pull the bobble from my hair and shake it out, standing there for a moment as I try my best not to think about what a total waste the day had been – again. 
                          
                I give myself all of ninety seconds to stand there with a blank mind and then, with a sigh, I push off from the wall, pick up the decorating supplies and make my way through the sitting room to the kitchen. As my feet hit the plush carpet of the living room, I let out a small groan of relief, the feel of it soothing my aching feet. When they hit the cool tile of the kitchen half a minute later, the throbbing feeling that comes from wearing new shoes all day finally subsided and my whole body relaxed. 
                          
                Setting the supplies down on the counter, I cross the room to the fridge, opening the door and grabbing a bottle of juice. I open it and down half in one go, feeling nothing but relief as it goes through me. 
                          
                Shutting the fridge door, I rest against it, holding the bottle in my hands and closing my eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, feeling like complete and utter shit. 
                          
                Yet another day has gone by and still, I have no clue what the hell I'm supposed to write about. 'Some writer you are,' I mutter to myself, opening my eyes and deciding I should probably make myself some food if I want to eat before going to bed. 
                          
                As tempting as it is to just skip out on dinner and have a bowl of milk and cereal, I'm reminded of the fact that I've not eaten anything since breakfast when my stomach growls. Given how angry it sounds, I figure it's probably a bad idea to keep going on so little so I move away from the fridge door and turn around to open it, putting the juice back in its proper place and taking out the marinated chicken I'd stored in it the day before. 
                          
                I don't let another thought cross my mind while I put the chicken on the grill and take out whatever vegetables I have – a pretty meagre supply of them really but, let's be real, who likes vegetables? – and prep them, washing, cutting and seasoning before throwing them on the grill. 
                          
***
                          
                After a dinner that took way longer to cook than it did to eat, I headed upstairs to my room and finally shed the out-of-the-house clothes that I'd been wearing since about six that morning. With a sigh of relief, I pulled on my pyjamas and climbed into bed, settling myself in and pulling the blanket up over my knees. 
                          
                Reaching over to my nightstand, I grab the notebook and pen that basically live there, my laptop too and The Geography of Bliss just in case I need any inspiration. Putting my computer on my right side and the novel on my left, I open up my notebook to the next empty page and uncap my pen only to sit there staring at the page blankly, completely unable to think of a single thing to write. 
                          
                'Great. Just great Sarah,' I mumble, the cool cap of my favourite fountain pen pressed against my chin. I try my hardest to think of something, even putting the pen to the paper and trying to form words at least but nothing comes out. Not so much as a letter. 
                          
                'Three bleedin' years at uni studying for a degree you've hardly used because you wanted to travel, to be a writer. And now look at you! Over a year traveling from city to city, all over the bloody globe and what've you got to show for it? A half empty notebook of half-begun ideas!' I snap at myself, slamming the book shut and re-capping my pen. 
                          
                Maybe I shouldn't give up so quickly but I can't help it. After spending day after day and night after night trying to come up with something, anything, to write about, and failing every time, I can't stand to stare at the blank white pages of my notebook for long when there's no black ink coming out of the pen to cover it. 
                          
                It frustrates me to no end really. Back when I was still studying, I had an almost constant flow of ideas. And no time at all to write them. All I could ever do was jot down notes and hope I could make sense of them later. Of course, even on the odd occasions I can make sense of my own writing, I can't remember anything more than the scribbles on the page. Which, typically, aren't anything too detailed. 
                          
                And the leaves me with a problem. Because, now that I have the time to spend writing, I seem to have just run out of ideas, the well of creativity having dried up. 
                          
                So, with a sigh, I lean over and put my stuff back on the nightstand before reaching down and taking The House of Hades off the top of the ever-growing pile of books by my bed. 
                          
                Putting it on my pillow, I crawl over to the other end of the bed and flip the light switch for the main light, turning it off. As I sit back against my headboard, I reach up to switch on the booklight clipped onto it instead before leafing through my book till I find my page, the familiar weight of it in my hands relaxing me. 
                          
                It doesn't take long for me to find the page I'd left off on and I take out the bookmark, slipping it into the back cover before allowing myself to get lost in the all too familiar world of the demigods. 
                          
***
                          
                I wake up hours later, book light still on and my book on my lap, long since having slipped from my grip. 
                          
                There's a crick in my neck from sleeping funny but I pay it no attention. I can't pay much attention to anything really because my mind is taken up with an idea, an idea that I need to get written down before it disappears. 
                          
                So I reach out and grab my book and pen, feeling around with my hand to find the glasses that've slipped off my face while I was asleep and shoving them onto my face none-too-gently. 
                          
                Without wasting another second, I open the book and my pen, putting pen to paper and writing out all the things I can remember of the story I dreamt up, hoping to get it all down before any of it escapes me.
                          

                          
A/N: Well, I know it's been a really long time since I updated this one but I couldn't remember what I'd called the document I was writing it in and kinda lost it 🙈🙈 
                          
But I've found it now and I'm gonna go back to typing up what I have of the story so far so you should be seeing some updates on this over the next few weeks. 
                          
Other than that, all I have to say is I hope you enjoyed and I'll see you soon