I lay on my back staring at the grimy ceiling. It was quiet, almost too quiet. I thought back to the other hotels I had stayed in and most, if not all, of them had some variety of screaming, crying, or yelling children but I wasn't surprised if I was the only person in this motel other than the half-asleep zitty teenage boy with way to much metal on his face.
I turned over, smothering my face with the dusty pillow. It was flat and smelled like mothballs so I was pretty sure there was no way I would end up accidentally (or purposefully) asphyxiating myself.
How had I gotten to this point? I was just a carefree author writing what I wanted to write, what I was truely passionate about. Then out of no where my passionate ideas dried up and I was left with nothing except a publisher who wanted another manuscript and for me to 'get in touch with my roots.'
At first I thought he meant 'touch up my roots' which confused me because I hadn't don anything with my hair other than cut it. Soon it hit me, he was banishing me to Wildewood. The place of my childhood. The one place I had loathed to the very core of my being.
"Just get in touch with your roots, Olivia." He had said as if he weren't dealing out the most cruel and unusual punishment he could think of, "See your folks, meet new people, make new friends, get your groove back, and then bring me a new manuscript. You've got two weeks."
He shooed me out the door, ignoring my exlamations at how outrageous two weeks was and two days later I was at the Sunny Days Motel in the middle of Freaking Nowhere.
I groaned and actually seriously considered trying to suffocate myself.