That’s what she needs right now. Chewing on a jagged fingernail, Liliana considers her options.
She could give up. Give in to the anger. To the voice in her head that constantly tells her she’s not good enough. Power down the computer and forget about it all.
Wait a day. Perhaps a week even. Let the idea coalesce.
Or, Liliana could simply plough on. That’s surely how some get through. The thought motivates her, and she taps furiously for about five minutes. It’s like her fingers are working independently from her brain.
The nagging critic within speaks. It’s loud, insistent, and before Liliana is even aware of what’s happening, her fingers slow, then freeze, hovering over the keyboard like useless pegs. The voice laughs at the words on the screen. You’re no wordsmith. Look at what you’ve done. Plot. Plan. You’re not good enough to just let it flow. And she knows the voice is right. None of this comes easy.
Liliana stares. She’s pathetic. Colours kaleidoscope on the wall, behind her eyes. Fractals and patterns, darkness and light, merge as the room spins. Reaching for the tumbler of whiskey next to her laptop, she swirls the last dregs before gulping it down. It burns her throat. Deliciously warms her gut and spreads to her extremities. She eyes the bottle on the drinks tray, next to the lounge.
She really shouldn’t.
But who penned the phrase: Write drunk. Edit sober. Someone who knew what they were talking about, that’s for sure.
Standing beside the tray, she lightly touches the bottle of whiskey. Caressing its neck, fiddling with the lid, like it’s a form of foreplay. She smiles seductively at the amber liquid. Unscrews the lid and pours. The sound it makes sloshing into the glass is a reassuring whisper, one that drowns her inner critic, telling her to just get it done.
Liliana sips again. And begins to write.