When writer’s block got the best of her, she tried hiding from any for of reading for a while. Not as a revenge, for her lack of inspiration, but simply because she knew she was too fragile and enclined to steal bits and pieces of other people’s stories to fuel her own imagination…

She usually went crazy cleaning around the house, for a couple of days, or take care of business she had postponed one too many times.

But not today.

Her favorite writer published a book at this time, every year. And she had gotten the last opus, just a couple of days earlier. She never told people, afraid to look like the crazy fan she really was, but she had a tradition of keeping the book by the toilet. She wanted to force herself to stretch her reading on the longest period possible.

She wondered how the author would react, if she learnt that her precious work accompanied such ungraceful business. But judging from her darkish oddness… She guessed that her idol would grin and appreciate the intention.

This year, she was breaking the tradition.

Drawing herself a steaming hot bath, she undressed ritually near the tub. Lavender floated in the room, its sweet and soft scent already clashing with the all-claws-out style of the writer. She knew that if she brought the book with her, she would stay in the water until every square inch of her body would get wrinkled.

But she didn’t mind.

The water was almost burning, but she soaked in, up to her neck keeping only her hands dry above the surface. Picking her holy grail up, and turning the first few pages, she had a moment of doubt. She always did… What if this year, the story wasn’t as punchy, what if she got disappointed after so many years? What if breaking the tradition, had broken the spell?

She turned the pages slowly, trying not to rush into the story. Just like every previous reads, she felt herself falling in love with the author’s words again. Her eyes danced on the lines, her heart paced by the commas and periods.

The bath was getting cold, but the tale was worth enduring it. She suddenly remembered their brief encounter.

Oh, so you’re a writer?

That had been a big push in her own writing process. Approval from a mentor was the best proof that she could keep writing.

Maybe tomorrow, she would write again….

Maybe.