I’ve struck a writer’s block on A New Heart – or more specifically, how to write the story arc I had planned out. So, this will the final chapter – an epilogue, so to speak – due to the writer’s block. I am sorry about that. I just don’t know how to write out the story arc as it’s not coming to me.
So here’s the final chapter! Enjoy!
Four years later…
Snowflakes drifted down and kissed her eyebrows and face.
Mum once said that snowflakes were droplets of water that froze in the air.
They began drifting down faster. Elizabeth Stark wrapped her arms around herself as she leaned against the nearest tree trunk. Snow – hard compact snow – crunched underneath her as she shifted in her seat.
Each a different shape and form due to the flakes moving through differing temperature and humidity zones in the atmosphere.
Her eyes locked onto one snowflake. Followed it as it floated down. The sunlight through the trees reflected on it.
It floated down. Onto her hands.
Her fists clenched. Can do anything…except write.
It was her one talent. The one thing that gave her peace; allowed her to express her feelings in ways when she could not articulate them.
The one thing that the accident decided to take away from her.
Liz let out a frustrated sigh.
Why? Why take that away? Why did therapy allow me use of my limbs, but leave me unable to write?
For the past three and a half years, she had been working with a PT on rehabilitating her arms and hands. She had received an operation pretty much soon after she was sent to the hospital. The cancer in her brain was successfully removed and the clotting was fixed, though she still had to keep taking anticoagulant injections to prevent her blood clotting again as she had hypercoagulation problems after the accident.
Once she had regained use of her arms and hands, her parents sent her to work with her grandfather, who was a farmer. Her PT had recommended it so that she could “work out what she wants to do” and learn to do things again.
I know what I want to do. Write stories. But I can’t bloody type anymore.
Evidently, not all the nerve damage in her arms and hands were able to be fixed.
“Are you loving it?”
Adrien’s words echoed around in her mind. So, it was not exactly what he said, but she latched onto those words, thinking it through.
That day, she had drawn a blank on a story she had been trying to write. She and Adrien talked about it on the way to the bus that morning.
Then what happened?
Her brother had then asked her the strangest question.
Are you loving the story?
Are you loving it?
Yes, of course! It was simply the cancer on the parietal lobe that was causing my writing problems…or was it?
Am I loving writing?
For the past six months, she had been helping her grandfather out on his farm. In her spare time (and, hang, there wasn’t much of that around here. She was grateful to have gotten to spend this long out here without someone coming and saying “There’s more work”), she had tried to write the story again.
Which was why she was out here.
And, now that she thought about it, her inability to do so was not just to do with her damaged nerves.
Do I want to write anymore?
But I need to. I do it well. Everyone says that it’s my talent, one that many people aren’t able to do.
But did you want to do it? Or are you doing it simply because you can? Because you think it’s the one thing that you can do?
Liz wasn’t sure where those questions came from, but she seriously thought about the questions.
Why did I want to start writing stories?
The day that she had started writing stories, she had submitted one in for schoolwork. Her first one. Everyone who read it said it was very good.
So she had continued.
Because, she reluctantly admitted, I could. Not because I liked it, but because I could.
Another voice entered her head. She replayed what the person had said.
“Maybe writing was just for a time. Maybe all the stuff that’s been happening with you was meant to show you that it’s time. Time for something new. A change.”
“But I need to write.”
“Do you? Why? You’re not stupid or useless if you can’t – or aren’t – writing anymore. Writing isn’t the only thing that you can do. It isn’t what defines you. It isn’t what you’re meant to be doing. Think. There’s something else that you’re meant to do and you’ll find it and be amazing.”
“So you’re saying…that all the stuff that’s happened to me 3 and a 1/2 years ago wasn’t by chance?”
“Exactly. Figure out what you’re meant to do.”
Liz picked up a stick, brushed the snow off, and began fiddling with it. She stared out at the distance. Grandfather’s right. Everything happens for a reason. Nothing’s accidental. I don’t need to worry about anything that occurs in my life. Just take each moment as it comes. I’m here for a reason.
What is it?
A scurrying sound.
Liz looked up and saw a squirrel running down the tree she was leaning against. The nut that was in its mouth fell out and landed with a small thud next to her. The squirrel watched her – it’s beady little eyes cautious and wary.
She shifted away from the tree.
The squirrel darted down, grabbed the nut and scurried up the tree again.
Looking down, she frowned.
How did that get there?
A drawing of a bird feeding her chicks was etched in the sand.
She looked at the stick and saw it was damp at the end.
Did I draw that?
Suddenly, a new feeling coursed through her. Of joy. Of purpose.
Getting a firmer hold of the stick, Liz began to sketch more pictures in the snow. Her mouth spread open in a smile.
She had found it.
What she wanted to do.
What she was meant to do.
Thank you, Grandfather. For everything.
Yeah. That could have been written a ton better, but, as I said, I am having a writer’s block. I wasn’t sure how to write what I was seeing in my mind. I know I could have explained things more, fleshed it out more, but…writer’s block.
Sorry about how poorly written and done this story has been. Didn’t turn out nearly as well as I wanted and intended it to turn out. Hope you guys got what I was trying to say – which I poorly wrote out. Sorry that it’s not up to my usual standard – I’m not used to writing stuff like this.
Hope you at least liked it.
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