A language of colloquial proportions littered the desk.
Stephanie picked up one of the crushed pieces of paper. She unfurled it in her hand, before looking at it once more. No – it still wasn’t good enough. None of them would be good enough. Self doubt twisted around her mind like vines around the stem of a rose.
One by one her attempts at writing a synopsis were thrown in the bin.
Why could she write a novel so easily? With all the plots and twists entangled in one ball of yarn the ending was clear. Now all she had to do was write what her manuscript was about in less than two hundred words.
The beat sheet wouldn’t fall into place. There were so many things she wanted to tell the reader, but nothing she wanted to leave out.
The last crumpled up piece of paper in her hand, she carefully unwrapped her words. It was perfect, and the first one she had written.
Writer Ravenclaw 