“she wondered just how long it would be until someone noticed she was gone.”
Just as he deftly punctuated the last sentence, the ink blotted.
That was the 6th manuscript ruined. Stupid blots. Stupid.
He had just gotten back into Carin’s head. The character had finally come back alive, and he had to blot it. Why could things never work out the way they did in stories? His mistakes were never the romantic hero type. He just had problems with penmanship and shipping. No duels, no secret trysts with lovely young maidens. Merely insignificant details in a dusty mote ridden workspace. He couldn’t even write well or fast enough to merit a window.
Forlornly sharpening a new pen nib, Ian went back to elaborately describing the suicidal plottings of his willowy ethereal Carin.