Chapter 1 - Light Bulb Moments

BELLA.

"No, no, NO!" I chastised myself for the billionth time in two months, furiously hutting the backspace key on my laptop. Gripping the edge of the desk, I took some deep yoga breaths in an attempt to restrain from visualizing the computer as my personal punching bag.

Once relatively calm, I leant back in my desk chair, propping my sock clad feet on the surface of the table. The white expanse of ceiling above reminded me of the pristine word document glowing on the computer screen, begging to be filled with words – the only problem was that the usual swirling cloud of ideas had decided to take an extended holiday, rather than setting up residence in my mind.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnggg.

The loud shrill ring of my phone startled me from my murderous inner monologue of loathing towards my imagination – or lack thereof.

Glaring at the offending object, I decided to ignore the distraction and continue racking my brain for a suitable idea.

The phone rang again, like a chainsaw to my patience. Leaning over, I glanced at the screen to see who had decided to pop my bubble of concentration.

Fine, I admitted to myself as the phone rang yet again. No Bubble of Concentration had actually been present – in fact, I may have traded an arm, or a leg, or the last of my bottle white wine for that luxury.

Reading the name on the screen, I finally decided to answer in the hope that would be the last of my setbacks for the day.

"Hi Angela," I answered as cheerfully as I could manage.

"Still having writer's block issues?" said Angela, my editor and now good friend, sympathetically. I groaned in response. "Bells, you know I love you, but Marcus has been delightfully reminding me that your deadline is coming up by sending me two or three reminders a day. He was quite literally breathing down my neck when he came to visit me in my office yesterday afternoon."

I shuddered at this mental image of my somewhat slimy editor-in-chief at Clark & Alderson Publishing, feeling a pang of guilt that I had elicited such an experience on my good friend.

"Sorry, Ange," I apologized, running my hand through my four day old hair, suddenly disgusted at my obvious lack of personal hygiene, despite the dire circumstances I found myself in.

Angela cleared her throat. "I really hate to be the bringer of bad news, but Marcus wants to take a look at what you have drafted up to see how it's coming along. I can only delay for so long. I put off ringing you until now, but its getting to the critical stage and I'm trying to avoid another visit."

I shot mental daggers at my egotistical head editor. As much as I would be forever grateful for his role in publishing my first novel - which subsequently skyrocketed to the top of the best seller lists for weeks on end – the man was the source of infuriation countless times a day. I truthfully had no idea how Angela had managed to hold onto her sanity for the years she had been working under him. And now she had become his personal carrier pigeon, interpreting his requests and passing them on as urgent orders.

I laughed humorously. My inspiration levels were zilch and I had first deadline looming over me. I briefly wondered why I had decided to embark on the book path again. The first time around, I had written when the urge hit me – mostly well past midnight when I was meant to be studying for final college exams. Now, deadlines were mapped out despite the fact a plot wasn't. Why was it that dreaded events always seemed to arrive faster than anticipated ones?

My thoughts flashed to my bare cupboards, then to the current state of my hair and my apartment and lastly, to the problem of the irritating flashing black cursor on the pristine page in front of me.

"Angela," I said desperately. "We seriously need an action plan here. This has never happened before – ever. Normally the words just…flow. What's wrong with me?" I rested my forehead on the cool wood of the desk, remembering the events of two years prior. Writing my first novel, Unsinkable, had been like a drug. I was a woman possessed, writing furiously. I chuckled to myself, remembering that my obsession had caused the welcome breakup between Mike, my leech of an ex-boyfriend, and I two years prior…

"Babe, come to bed," Mike had requested groggily the evening I gained my freedom. He had stood in the doorway to the kitchen in a pair of Sesame Street boxers, obviously aroused. I mentally cringed and silently thanked the Lord I had an excuse to avoid that. Dodging his less than subtle advances had become an Olympic sport – attempting to break up with him was an even more exhausting endeavor. I had tried twice in the past week to begin the conversation with him, only to give up when Mike had somehow made me feel guilty for wanting to leave him.

"Twenty more minutes, okay?" I told him, not looking up from the glowing screen. A tense silence passed between us, the noise of my fingers furiously tapping the keys echoing around the room.

"Are you ever going to stop writing that chick lit filth, Bella? You and I both know it's a complete waste of time. No sane publishing house is going to choose to print a book written by a twenty-one year old woman fresh from college. Get with the real world, Isabella." He sneered my full name, knowing full well it was something I loathed.

"Get. Out. Mike." I suddenly snapped. "We're done."

It was like something had switched inside me. Suddenly, the old Bella, who didn't fight the way things were and accepted the bare minimum, was gone and a new one had replaced her. One who knew what she wanted, what she was capable of and what she deserved.

Mike had been a product of past hurt and insecurity, I realized as I had sat at the table in the kitchen. A result of him.

"But it's cold…" I swear I saw his bottom lip jut out as she gestured towards the window and the swirling white that lay beyond it, covering the city of Seattle. His voice mimicked that of a three year old and only made me dislike him more.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Apartment." I ordered him. "So help me, if you're not out of here in fifteen minutes I will ring Emmett."

Mike visibly cringed at the mention of my older, burley brother and dashed out of the room.

Call me immature, but I did a little happy dance in my seat once he had left the house.

I finished my first, real novel at three a.m. that morning. The slimy male character was diagnosed with herpes.

Angela's voice knocked me from my recollections. "Bella, maybe you just need a break? It seems you're severely burned out."

I nodded into the phone, sighing, before realizing Angela couldn't see me. "But what about the deadline? Marcus? My contract?"

"I'll get around that. When was the last time you drove down to Forks to see Charlie, Bella?" Angela's mention of my bachelor pad father instantly made me feel guilty as I realized it had been almost six months and I lived just over four hours drive away from him.

"And do you have anything in your house other than bread and Nutella?" She continued. Again, I realized she was completely and utterly right – well apart from the bottle of wine in the fridge, but that too was almost empty.

"I need a holiday," I half said to myself.

"A change of scenery would do wonders, Bella. Fresh air, nature."

If I lived in a Loony Tunes cartoon, a large light bulb would have appeared over my head at that exact moment. I rummaged furiously in my desk drawer, retrieving a crisp document from its envelope.

Grandma Marie was a saint.

EDWARD.

Bang, bang, BANG!

I woke to the sound of furious knocking on my front door, immediately wishing who ever it was would give up and go away.

The sound repeated with more force - BANG, BANG, BANG – followed by yelling.

"Edward! Open the door!" Shouted a male voice somewhere in the distance.

The assault continued, with a female voice joining in the pleading, and I became afraid they might forcibly knock down my door.

At this realization, I opened my eyes to assess my surroundings. Afternoon light filtered through the cracks in the blinds. Glancing over to my alarm clock, the time confirmed my suspicions. 5.45 p.m. I had slept the day away.

"Darling, please. Just open the door. You missed Tuesday night dinner today. I'm worried about you!" Said a voice, which suddenly registered as my mother Esme's.

Sunday lunch? My mind fought to catch up with the information being fed to me. The last thing I remembered was crashing into bed at 6 a.m. on Saturday morning, emotionally and physically drained.

I had slept for nearly thirty-six hours.

These thoughts brought Friday night's events back to me in a rush that made it hard to breathe. I struggled to draw air into my lungs as I stumbled to the door to let my parents in.

On turning the knob, I was immediately assaulted by a soft enveloping hug and my mother's smell. I felt a hand on my shoulder, guessing it was Carlisle, my father.

"Edward, sweetheart. What happened? Are you alright?" said my mom, reaching up to smooth my hair comfortingly.

As I opened my mouth to tell her, it became too much. Feeling like I was drowning, racking sobs overtook my body as I clung to her desperately.

A/N: So, that was the first chapter of the rewritten Grounds for Inspiration. After a year of (ironic) writer's block, I am back and ready to go.

Thanks for all my old readers who have stuck with me and to all those who have stumbled over this story for the first time! For those who have read the old version of the story, it might be a good idea for you to take the time to re-read the chapters I will be posting so you won't get confused. While some parts are the same, I have completely altered others.

I will be updating weekly, maybe more often depending on how quickly I write.

So, what was your favourite part? Let me know! I think I enjoyed writing the first few paragraphs the most :) Bella's frustration reminded me of my own, haha.