She was covered in notebooks. Literally. She lay on her bed with a hangover from words. Paper strewn over her like a blanket. Both comfort and anxiety.
Her head pulsed. She wanted a day off, but she had a deadline. Deadlines. Dead as a prefix suits it so well. It’s how you feel inside knowing how much you have to do.
She grabbed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose and rose from bed. The midday sun stung her eyes as she continued to her desk.
Words. Come on, words. You were in my head when I wanted to sleep. Where are you now?
She hunched over her laptop and groaned. She reminded herself she did want to write a book, and began typing.