My Cardboard Balcony

Hi, guys, So, this year's attempt at a NaNoWriMo was a complete and abysmal failure. This may sound harsh, but it's the truth. I was unable to write anything during most of November. Zero words. Zip. Nada. "But Belinda!" you may cry in my imagination. "You still have four days! Just write about 13,000 words a day!" No dice, champ. I simply cannot do it. I do not have the stamina or mental confidence to do so. Not this time. I'm not saying I don't have ideas. Oh, no, I have plenty of those. All floating in my brain, taking up cargo space, chatting wildly among themselves and making a ruckus. I have ideas. I simply do not have the energy to put them on paper. They're simply blobs of scenes and premises and characters with no real structure to draw from. They just can't make a novel/ So, that's that. I could've spent time working on Storytellers. Instead, I floundered aimlessly trying to write a novel that just wasn't in me. ...

The constellation room, as I entered it, practically lit up as soon as my shoes hit the carpet. It was beyond a miraculous spectacle. As I was escorted to a chair, I felt as if I were bathing in the vacuum of space itself. The temperature in the room was fitting as well: Chilly, lending itself to an aura of mystery and wonder as you stared up at the simulation of an ever expanding galaxy.