She was sitting in a cafe, alone, waiting for something to happen. She had no idea what. Lately, her life had felt stagnant, slow. She'd hoped that the cheerful garden cafe, with its kitschy yet cozy aura, would somehow jumpstart her flagging spirit.
She'd brought along the pen and paper, like every other visit, hoping that the well of words that had run dry for so long would be nurtured back to life by the gentle blossom tea. The paper sat in front of her, like every other visit, blank, empty.
Sighing, she sank further into the wicker, using its close embrace as both a comfort and a shield. Life was better now than it had ever been, she thought. Leisure surrounded her days. She wasn't forced into holding a menial job that bored her, didn't have to answer to a time clock or bosses or demanding customers. She was free to explore on her own, free to fly, free to unleash all of her wild spirit on the world and the page.
Yet the openness, the freedom itself was oppressing. Without a guide, she was lost in a sea of trivial thoughts, with nothing to direct her. Despite the seemingly endless amount of inspiration she was surrounded with, she had never felt so uninspired. She had a new, exotic life to write about, halfway around the world from her comfort zone. She wrote infrequently about her travels. You should be working, producing your masterpiece that's been fighting to come out all of these years while you were distracted away from it, she thought. And still, the words would not come.
She looked listlessly through writer's blogs for inspiration. Nothing came. She downloaded a new desktop wallpaper for computer, emblazoned with one of her favorite Jack London quotes: "You can't wait for inspiration - you have to go after it with a club." Nothing came. She decided to try a "writer's prompt boot camp" - two weeks of prompts to write about, to "jog your flabby writer's chops." Forced inspiration wasn't likely to help, but she doggedly decided to pursue it anyway.
Day one: write a letter breaking up with writer's block. She finished it in a few hours and posted it, unsatisfied with the measly 300 word result of the fruits of her labors. Annoyed, she skipped day two.
The next day, she regretted the decision, deciding that she'd make an attempt at the next prompt. It was something about running into the ex-lover - the "One That Got Away" - on Valentine's day.
The prompt brought her to the cafe, and the tea. Nestled safe inside her perch, she closed her eyes and tried to picture the "One That Got Away." Lost in the sea of fragrant jasmine blooming from her cup, she let the memories float into her mind.
She'd been doing an awful lot of thinking about "The One That Got Away" lately, she realized, in a somewhat ironic twist of fate that jarred her peaceful recollection. Smiling, she opened her eyes and started writing.
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