Author's Notes:

So. A third PoME story? After I'd already wrapped up my second? Am I freaking crazy? Insane?

Probably. I'd like to think that's a charming part of my personality.

Behold, reader: my first attempt at writing a romance story, the kind with which veteran PoME readers are familiar. It shall be lively and ludicrous. It shall be sappy and maybe meaningful. It shall be fun; at least, I think it shall be fun. But what do I know? I'm just the author.

Will this have the same level of depth that Day By Day had? Maybe. Maybe not. Will it be as long? Doubtful. Will it be good? That's for you to decide.

With that said, I welcome you to Spilling Ink.

Her heart was his before they’d even met.

“No, that’s not a good opening. Um…”

They were soulmates before they’d even been acquainted.

“No, that’s no good either. How about…”

Once upon a time…

“Oh, who am I kidding…”

A pair of lilac hands stopped typing. Then they resumed, only, instead of progressing forward, they hit the backspace repeatedly. The page was blank once more. It was a sorry sight to behold, and the whiteness of the page mocked and ridiculed its creator with a vehemence surely only a monster could have. The vehemence carried from there to a navy skirt, shaking it, and it continued up a dark, cobalt long-sleeve shirt.

There was a low hum, not from the computer, but from the computer’s owner. It quickly devolved into a disgusted huff. The page was open for but a moment longer before the owner fiercely slammed the laptop shut.

To say Ink was annoyed was an understatement. She was more than that; she was frustrated, exasperated, exhausted, and a whole bunch of other synonyms that she couldn’t think of at the moment. The emotions shot through her body like rockets of negativity, hitting her nerves and causing her to slam her hands onto her bed. The soft blankets absorbed the blow, but they did little to filter her frustration. She stared into the top of the laptop, hoping her eyes would shoot similarly-colored-burgundy laser beams into it, perhaps frying it into submission.

Ink spread her arms like an eagle and fell back, letting her laptop slip over to the side. A breath rushed through her nose, amassing as a worn-out sigh that carried softly around her room. She fiddled with a strand of short, dark-indigo hair, which was scruffy and unkempt. She hadn’t bothered combing it the moment she’d gotten home from school; she’d been filled with a desire to ignore everything else but the idea that was floating around in her mind, like a fairy to catch. She’d sat down on her bed, opened her laptop, opened a new document, and…

Well, she didn’t need to finish that thought.

Ink’s sigh became a groan. It had seemed like such a good and easy idea at the time. Yet the moment she’d begun typing, it apparently decided to take a vacation and leave without informing her until it was too late. Now its absence mocked her. She knew it was somewhere; she just couldn’t reach it, couldn’t grasp it in her hands and shove it onto her pages.

Her hands fell over her face, covering her burgundy eyes. Through her hands, she mumbled, “God, why does this have to be so hard?!”

But she’d mumbled louder than she’d meant to. Her mother’s voice came from downstairs, presumably the kitchen. “Ink, dear? Are you all right?”

Removing her hands, Ink shouted back, “Yeah, I’m fine! Just frustrated is all!”

Her mother didn’t reply, so Ink assumed that was that. She kept her hands down next to her and stared up at the ceiling.

It was a rather low ceiling, sloping at the end. A single light bulb hung from it, dangling by a beaded wire. Her eyes roamed around, looking from the dreary ceiling to the less-dreary walls that surrounded her. These were covered in posters from older eras, back when she was obsessed with a certain boy band or comics or whatever.

Her eyes traced over a Countess Coloratura poster, before darting from it to one of the Rainbooms, her school’s own band. Then they jumped over to a picture of the Power Ponies and the like. They were all familiar, and that was the problem, for she could no longer turn to them for the inspiration and motivation she so desperately craved.

She was about to groan again when she heard her mother coming up the steps. A moment later, the door cracked open a peep, and in stuck her mother’s amethyst head. “What are you frustrated about?” she asked, peering at her through square-rimmed glasses.

“U-uh, w-well—” Ink could feel her face burn up. “You see…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away, embarrassed.

Her mother took that as permission to enter. She closed the door behind her, made her way over to her daughter, and sat down beside her. Her eyes went from Ink’s shadowed face to her closed laptop. “Is it school?” she asked.

Ink shook her head. “No, school’s fine. More than fine, actually. Kind of boring, since the holidays are happening and winter break is coming up.”

“I see. No projects, then?”

“None whatsoever. And I finished all of my homework, too.”

Her mother nodded as if she really did understand, and Ink knew she did, to some extent, just not fully. Not many people did, anyway. She was tempted to sigh again.

“So if it’s not school, and it’s not homework,” her mother said, “then what is it?”

Ink’s blush intensified. “It’s, um… m-my writing…”

Her mother giggled lightly. “Oh, right! Your little storybook!”

She was half-tempted to smack a pillow in her mother’s face. Unfortunately, her mother was in the way of said pillow, so she couldn’t reach over and grab it. She opted for putting her head in her hands and clenching her eyes tightly shut. “Mom!” she exclaimed. “It’s not just a ‘little storybook!’ It’s a novel!”

“Oh, all right,” her mother said, her giggles dying down. “I’m just teasing you, Ink. You know that, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.”

She felt her mother’s hand fall onto her back, gently rubbing her. She could tell she was frowning. “I’m sorry, dear. I know that novel means a lot to you.”

“Yeah. It does.” This time, she did sigh. “I’m sorry, mom. It’s just… annoying to me when people think an art is useless, y’know?”

Her mother’s hand retreated. “So that’s it, then? You’re upset about your writing? I’m sure it’s not that bad.” She made to reach over to grab Ink’s laptop, but Ink stopped her midway. “Hmm?”

“That’s just it,” Ink said, shaking her head. “It’s not the writing that’s making me upset. It’s the lack of writing.”

“Lack of—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Ink let go of her mother. She smiled ruefully, and tapped the side of her head. “Writer’s block, mom. The bane of my existence, the little devil over my shoulder, the voice in the back of my head.” She then shook her head. “I came home today and had a great idea, but whatever I’ve been putting down so far just doesn’t sound… right. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“A little. So far nothing seems to be matching up well with what you’re thinking?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Ink pouted, hands folded in her lap. “It’s just… I really want to have something done before the end of junior year. Even a rough rough draft, or some sort of outline, anything. But I can’t put the words to paper, and it’s… it’s making me frustrated.”

Her mother pursed her lips; she obviously had no idea what to say. Ink couldn’t blame her. What could you say other than a bunch of empty reassurances? Ink had no material on hand; there was no evidence to suggest she ever had a chance of completing anything. Her laptop was filled with empty pages, while her mind rambled on and on with endless ideas. There was a gap between those two things, one she could not easily cross.

“Well, you have all weekend to try and come up with something,” her mother said. She said this to say something for the sake of saying something. She appeared doubtful of her own word.

Ink sighed again—an addicting habit. “Yeah, I guess so… I guess I shouldn’t push it, huh?”

They talked a little longer, mostly about other things, and then her mother had to leave her alone to prepare dinner. Ink’s room was now just filled with her empty pages and bursting thoughts. She’d never felt more certain that she was uncertain than now.

I’ve got to do something about this stupid writer’s block! But what?

She stared up at the ceiling and wondered without end. She had to find a way; she just had to. If she didn’t…

If I don’t, then I’m gonna feel like I’m in a rut for a long while. And who knows when the spark of inspiration will return?

She curled her lips. Of course when she was in the middle of ruminating did she come up with some sharp lines of dialogue. It was when she had to turn that into black pixels on her screen did she stutter. How ironic.

But what could she do?

Suddenly, she felt her phone vibrate. Sitting back up, she took it out and flicked past the lock screen. A familiar name popped up, with a familiar message:

“Same time tomorrow?”

And there was her answer. Or, at least, a possible answer.

She typed in a quick response: “Yeah. And, actually, could I talk with you about something at the same time?”

Only seconds later—and she liked this fact about this person; he was quick to respond—did he reply: “Sure thing, Ink.”

She let out another sigh. Tomorrow couldn’t come quick enough.