SM owns the characters. Tori Amos owns "Raspberry Swirl". I own a notebook.

and you need it just a little

and it's more than you can take

and it's more than you can fathom

and it's more than you can fake

-Fruit Bats, Need it Just a Little

The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven

-John Milton

A common misconception is that many great singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan wrote their best work while in a depression, adding fuel to the overly popular belief that suffering yields art. When asked, they will tell you their most profound work blossomed after recovering from a depression, for it is impossible to create when you are in the throes of darkness and despair – when you are sobbing on the kitchen floor, mentally and emotionally beaten. In this place, anything beautiful is choked out like a weed, and there is no hope for escape. Even the most gut-wrenching, angst-ridden art is not born in this place. It is born after, when you can, at least for a moment, pick yourself up off the floor long enough to grab your guitar or notebook, or whatever your medium may be, and reflect back on what being in that darkness did to you.

So I pick myself up off the floor and grab my notebook.

I really couldn't blame the whole of my depression on Jasper. I was the one who allowed him to control and affect me for so long. The thing about manipulation is that it is invisible and you usually don't know you're being manipulated until it's all said and done. Jasper's way was control on the sly, and he was a pro. In the end, I couldn't trust myself with him, never knowing whether my feelings were my own or just a projection of how Jasper wanted me to feel. Today, I don't mourn the loss of him as much as the idea of him. But most of all, I grieve for the years that I lost while under his spell.

So I find myself once again staring blankly at a thing I used to be best friends with. I scowl at my notebook and open the cover. Fifteen minutes pass, and for the third time today, I close it with a sigh and stare at the ceiling, cursing writer's block. Never underestimate the power of the mind. It can make heaven of hell or hell of heaven. And I live in my mind. As a writer, that comes in handy; as a children's novelist, it's almost a necessity. My livelihood depends on my ability to create fantasy worlds that are original, colorful, and yet, simple. Even though I long to be back in those places that I created, that others, and even myself, have escaped to, my mind just can't conjure anything new. Not yet. My editor is aware I am taking time off, and there is no immediate need to get anything published. This is a relief and also a crutch. I want to be able to write again. I want to sit down and create the whimsical tales that used to come so easily. The ideas used to come so freely I could hardly record them fast enough. I felt alive when writing. I felt a spark that I since have lost. And losing your spark is a scary thing indeed.

I go to the stereo to turn on some music for inspiration. It's Tori Amos. I normally find her haunting and clever, but today her poetry tastes bland and her music sounds sour. I sit back down and stare at the notebook. Ten minutes pass this time, and for the fourth time today, I close the notebook. Trying to force a story just because I'm a writer and it's my job isn't going to work. It occurs to me in this moment that maybe the reason I have writer's block is because I'm trying to tell the wrong story. For ten years I have been imagining what a dream world would look like to a seven year old, and then I would create it and lay it down on paper. Well, I'm not seven. I am envious because the reality of my world does not parallel the joy or peace I've created in my fictional worlds. It's been a long time since I asked myself what the world I want to live in looks like. What is it that I want? What would satisfy me?

A flash behind my eyes of a lean, muscular build springs to mind, and the vision is gone before I have time to focus on it. I delve back into that vision and take a closer look. Then I realize that it is not a vision at all, but a memory. Green eyes, bronze hair. I've seen him jogging on the river trail. He's methodical, constant. I see him at the same time on the same days, week after week. As if coming out of a fog, inspiration strikes, and I know exactly what I want to create. I have a perfect muse. A template for my fantasy. And this time my fantasy world will not be for children. It will be for me.

The mind can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven. I'm due for some heaven. As if on cue, Tori begins to sing "Raspberry Swirl," and in this moment, I find her poetry sultry and her music seductive. With the image of piercing green eyes and long fingers in my mind, I pick up my pen and begin to write…

A/N: First attempt at fanfic so be gentle:) Lemons next chapter if you want to know where Bella's writing is going... Would LOVE your reviews.