Have you ever wanted to paint a nebula? Now you can.
She watches them through the cafe front as they smile, as they hold their faces too close, as they kiss, and she wonders what that’s like.
Vaguely, she remembers thinking she deserved that. She remembers wanting it. She wants it now, sometimes, a stirring deep inside her that makes it all the way to the middle of her chest before she kills it.
Her phone buzzes. She checks it even though she knows. As she answers, she scoops up her things. She leaves her coffee in the trash bin on her way out.
“Yeah,” she says, “I’m on my way.”
If you’re a writer, you actually have to write. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing original poetry or prose, journaling, writing fic, blogging, or just writing Facebook posts. You just have to write.
2. Keep writing.
And you have to keep writing. There will be times when you go a long, long time without writing. That’s all right. It happens. Make sure you start back up again and keep writing.
3. Make writing a habit.
Do it every day. Or every other day. Or once a week. Whenever you do it, make a habit of it. Once something’s a habit, it’s a lot easier to do it without thinking about it too much.
4. Make writing a priority.
We’ve all got other things to do. Work, school, families. But making writing a priority fits it in with those things. Make it important to you. Make sure the people around you know that it’s important.
5. Believe that you are a writer.
When someone asks, say you’re a writer. Believe that you are. Believe in yourself. It’s a lot easier to do what you want when you believe that you can, that you’re suited to it, capable of it.
She catches him watching her try to rub feeling back into her fingers and she flushes self-consciously.
“Where are your gloves?” he wants to know.
On the hands of a child living in a trash bag on the corner near the train station. “I don’t know,” she lies, laughing it off, hoping he’ll think she’s just forgetful.
His lips quirk. “Here,” he says, and reaches for her hands.
“Oh–” she starts, because her hands are one of those places, and she hates to have them touched. It’s too much, too intimate, and she doesn’t need that, not from him, not yet.
They’re still too new for her to give away all of her secrets.
“Let me warm you up,” he says, and his hands are around hers, and his skin is so hot.
She gasps softly.
He cups his hands around hers and draws them closer to him, draws her closer to him, and as they stand in her lobby and wait for the elevator, he rubs warmth and feeling back into her frozen fingers, and he never takes his eyes off of hers.
It’s too much. It’s way too much too soon and she can’t breathe. His lips curve. He smiles like he knows.
The elevator bell goes off and the doors open, but before she can pull away, he brings her hands to his mouth and he brushes a slow, warm kiss along her knuckles.
Her knees feel weak.
He releases her hands but he doesn’t stop smiling.