The phone was ringing. Again. I set down my pen and simply stared at it for the next two rings. It was an old phone, shiny black with a real wheel dial on it – very annoying. I had it half in my mind to just unplug the infernal contraption, and then with a rebellious spark lifting the corners of my lips, I did just that.
Almost instantly I could feel a dark presence settling over my shoulders. I couldn’t hear it, but I knew that miles away in Chicago, my editor was muttering dark obscenities and curses in my general direction. A shiver went up my spine, but I was smiling hard enough to split my face in half.
When I picked my pen up, the small joy I had felt at spiting my employer faded away. My laptop sat on the corner of my crowded desk, half-buried under notes and sketches. I had given up typing days ago, but even my tried-and-true method of switching to handwriting had not cured my writer’s block.
It was really rather depressing. They had carted me out to this lovely old house off Lake Michigan, thirty miles from the nearest town, all so I could make some progress on my book in the peace and quiet. It was a charming little cabin with a real wood burning stove, a lovely view of the lake, and only a little cracking paint. I was even blessed with such modern conveniences as a landline phone, plumbing, dialup internet, and electricity. Everything about the lake house screamed “IDEAL WRITING ENVIRONMENTâ€