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cynicalrainbows · 4 years

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Writer’s Block Pt 1

(A/N: Three headcanons of mine- that Cathy can’t possibly like working super hard all the time. That Anne isn’t quite the chaotic gremlin she pretends to be. And that Parr would surely have some trust issues left over from finding out that someone you loved and who you thought loved you had actually signed your death warrant over what you had assumed were good-natured debates.)

When Anne bursts through her bedroom door, Cathy really wants to hit her.

(Not that she’s ever hit anyone really- in either of her lives. But looking at Anne grinning and swinging back and forth a bit on the open door, she imagines it would feel rather satisfying.

And god knows, she needs something to feel good about. Her eyes ache from staring at her laptop screen- her stupid, blank, empty laptop screen that refuses to turn into a fully written document, no matter how hard she glares at it- and her wrists are cramping from hours of endlessly typing and then deleting sentence after sentence. At the base of her skull, the beginnings of what promises to be one hell of a headache begins to throb.

It’s been five days- three days since she lost her appetite and two days since she stopped sleeping for more than ten minutes at a time- and the writing rut she somehow managed to fall into. Just. Won’t. End.

Nothing she’s typed for the last few days has sounded good, even in her own head: she’s all out of ideas, all out of innovation. Her newest book- something that she’s sure she’d been excited about, once upon a time- has become a millstone around her neck and she’s barely even begun it.

But… she’s talked about it now- people have begun to speculate excitedly about it on twitter. It’s too late to say she’s changed her mind- especially when it seems like every other mention of it online is begging her to write faster, to go faster.

‘So excited- don’t think I’ll be able to wait til it’s published!’ ‘Oh my god I’m counting down the minutes!’ ‘I want it nowwwwwww!’

Once, such comments made her feel flattered, invigorated. Now they feel like veiled threats.

It’s not that she doesn’t have a lot written. It’s that she has nothing written- whatever she tries, she ends up deleting, and although she knows that writing is a process, that a first draft is simply that- a first draft- she’s never felt like this before.

Burnt out. Empty.

Honestly, it scares her.

It doesn’t help that, working from home, she’s subjected to what feels like an endless barrage of interruptions from the other queens.

First it’s Kitty, calling through her door that Jane has made pancakes for breakfast (it sounds as if the giver of the message is running- rather than walking- along the landing and down the stairs, a suspicion then confirmed by what sounds like the youngest queen jumping down the last few steps). Then there’s Anne’s shouted demand that Kitty not use the last of the Nutella this time- it’s slightly muffled by doors and distance and not directed at Cathy but it’s still more than a little distracting.

There’s Aragon, calling a general warning that the next person to borrow her hairdryer without asking should prepare themselves for many unpleasant things to happen to them- ‘And I mean it this time!’; and Jane- in the next room- asking Kitty if she wants anything from Costa (and Cathy doesn’t need to be there to see Jane’s slightly perplexed expression when Kitty asks for a small frappe with ‘as much caramel syrup as they’ll agree to put in the cup, please’.)

And then there’s Anna, knocking and asking if she’s coming down for lunch- How is it lunchtime already?- and perhaps her reply is shorter and sharper than she intends because it feels like no time at all before Jane’s tapping on the door too, asking if she’s alright, if she’s sick, if she needs anything?

Really, all Cathy needs is to be left alone- or, better still, for everyone to go out for a few hours- or days- so that she can just try to focus…but she can’t say that to Jane, she knows.

Still, it’s so frustrating: every interruption cuts off her train of thought and although she isn’t really getting anywhere, shoe does wonder every time if perhaps she really had been on the cusp of a good idea at last...

Her attempts to sound well and normal are in vain because then it’s Catalina outside.

‘Cathy?’

Her ‘Mmm?’ is as politely interested as she can manage.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m-’ Just tired, she means to say. She really is too- the sort of bone-deep weariness that feels almost like an ache all over. But her head is also buzzing too much for her to rest- work to be done, work to be done, and behind it, the little seed of fear that has been steadily growing, fed by days of unproductiveness: What if this lasts forever?

It would feel good to be able to unburden herself to her godmother- to let her listen and nod silently as she always did, thinking carefully before answering and never wasting words on things she didn’t mean. Part of her wants to open the door- to let Catalina wrap her up in a hug and reassure her that all would be well- but she knows she can’t.

Opening the door will mean a hug, yes, but it will also likely lead to questions about is she getting enough sleep and whether she’s eating properly and when did she last shower, none of which she particularly wants to have to answer…. So she substitutes ‘Fine!’ for tired, even though the faux-perkiness in her own voice makes her wince a bit.

There’s a brief pause- Cathy can almost see Catalina raising one unimpressed eyebrow.

‘You’re not.’

‘No, really. I’m ok. Just busy.’

‘I’m worried about you. So are the others. You’re working too hard, and it isn’t healthy.’

‘I’m really ok.’

‘You’re a really bad liar, Cathy.’

One thing her godmother isn’t is equivocating. Blunt and sometimes tactless yes but never evasive.

Cathy chews her lip as she tries to think of the magic words that will get her godmother to leave easily, feeling a little spark of panic when nothing comes to mind- but all of a sudden, she feels a prick of anger too. Why is she being forced to spend time reassuring them all when she’s the one with the crushing workload, the endless empty pages to fill? If they care- if they really, really care- why can’t they all just be quieter, why is she being forced to take up more of her precious time and energy to field their interruptions?

The anger bubbles up quickly, too quickly for her to push it back, and her shout for Catalina to just leave her alone, leave her alone and stop nagging her because she’s sick of it, is a surprise even to herself.

But it’s more of a surprise when she hears her godmothers footsteps retreating down the hall. She’s relieved- relieved….but also a bit shocked. Catalina never backs down so easily….and suddenly the relief gives way to worry.

Why has she given up so easily?

She tries to focus on the fact that she’s now free to work again- but the concern gnaws away at her as she stares at the keyboard.

Why has Catalina just left if she’s as worried as she had professed to be? Was she really angry- angry enough that her worry had been expunged?

(Has she stopped caring?)

Was one outburst all it took to turn someone’s feelings around?

Cathy immediately berates herself internally for even asking this.

Of course it’s that easy- experience has taught her that.

The death warrant had felt light in her hand- lighter than it should, considering the weight it carried. She had rubbed her fingers over and over the smooth wax of the King’s seal, tracing the pattern. Had he been thinking of her as he’d pressed it down? Or had his mind moved on, already planning for himself the life he would have- the wife he would have- after she was gone?

Her ladies had impressed upon her the need for a great show of emotion in order to win him back but in the end, it hadn’t been at all difficult to cry as she begged for her life. When it was all over, she hadn’t been able to stop shaking. She was careful to never argue with him after that.

She wants to run after her godmother, to apologise, to beg Catalina to forgive her lapse….but then she thinks of how much she has to do, how many people are waiting, waiting, waiting for her to finish something that she hasn’t even started… and she knows she can’t. She can’t stop work until she has something, anything- She tries to blink away the sudden burning behind her eyelids and swallows hard.

Her hands hover over the keys.

Just- something. Please. Please-

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #stressed!Cathy

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