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History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.

sun shines through glass, casting a shadow of gold upon dark wood, illuminating the sitting figure. a gentle gust of warm wind draws out a creak of rusted window hinges and a soft rustle of paper. faint but rapid clicks of inked metal taps in a disjointed cadence, stopping and starting spasmodically; each leaving an imprint of black upon white, irreversible and eternal. words form upon the paper, imagination transmuting into reality by slender fingers as they press on lettered keys with a certainty. the one who sits immersed in her work looks no older than twenty, though one would guess wrong if they said so. pale pink hair curls atop an elegant neck, cream cashmere resting on thin shoulders; one leg is pulled up against the writer's chest, a small chin resting on top. half-lidded eyes tinted with rose stare intensely at the sentences she gradually forms.[break][break]

ding![break][break]

she is roused out of her focused stupor, a yawn crawling out of the writer's mouth as she lifts her arms above her head, arching her back as she stretches. Blinking languidly, the pair of rhodochrosite re-read the sentence she'd typed slowly, letting the words roll by in her mind one by one. it displeases her. taking a cup of tea that had sat previously forgotten beside the typewriter, she sips from it gently, frowning and letting her mind expose what she needed to fix. sighing and rolling her eyes in exasperation, her shoulder blades hit the back rest, a nimble hand coming up to push at her temple.[break][break]

how troublesome. [break][break]

a much colder breeze suddenly brushes against her cheek, caressing it with abrupt ice. light fades from the room and the words on the page become harder to see. ah, so the sun had begun its descent. pursing coral lips, trepidation curls itself around her heart; there is still a promise she needs to fulfil before the evening. picking up a quill, she marks a red dot beside the sentence and pushes the platen back to the left, beginning a fresh line. without much further hindrance, she begins typing again.[break][break]

[break][break]

her quill strikes red upon black, brisk scratching to be the only sound heard in the room. the lights of candles flicker delicately, creating volatile shadows on the walls. hunched over the same dark wooden table where her typewriter sat, the writer hovers above the unnamed second book of what she would call her magnum opus. Symposium of Stars is its name, its first novel named Canopus. it is not her first work and nor will it be her last. [break][break]

she is purposefully slow with the releases of her novels, torturous to her readers, amused when they lament over the fleeting glimpses of written passages she allows them to glance at. however despite the game she plays, she is successful. exceptionally so.[break][break]

she had written her debut novel at seventeen; the result from an impulsive desire to write. its release had sparked an unrest in the population, the book becoming increasingly popular within weeks. this surge in reputation, however, did not make her any more prolific in her writing. it took another three years before she published the first novel of Symposium of Stars; the works in between the first and the second were only short stories and simple essays. nothing important, as she would say. and now, as if following a clock, it had been another three years.[break][break]

refining her work is yet another long process proceeding the actual writing. it is a task she refuses to use magic for. every edit, every mark is made manually with an acute meticulousness one might not expect of her. as the glow of candlelight unveils the curtain of darkness, there is no fatigue upon her youthful face, for the agonising process of proofreading is one she has experienced many times. she does not have an editor, she has never needed one. her script is fluid and graceful as she corrects sentences, spelling and grammar with lines and added words. [break][break]

as the last page amongst hundreds falls against the one before it, the end of the manuscript, the author releases a sigh and rubs at her eyes. finally, it is done. she rubs the palm of her hand against the smooth paper, feeling a sense of relief and pride rush through her.[break][break]

her lips tilt up in a soft smile as she flips the pile over. the cover is blank, its emptiness serving only one purpose. she dips her quill in black ink and writes with conviction, Symposium of Stars: Polaris. and beneath it all, she writes not her true name but Máire Callaghan. [break][break]

complete and accomplished, she retires for the evening, blowing out the candle. tomorrow, she will send the manuscript to the publishers and watch idly as sundial is strewn with passion once more.