Cece Writes A Book [COMPLETED]

Chapter 8 - "It was an excellent question."

The McKenzie's had created the Sample Walk when they had first moved to Boston. They had moved from a west coast beach town and the old city had felt like a foreign country with its brick sidewalks and cobblestone roads. Their first summer had been filled with long walks wandering through the twisted streets to see where they would end up.

By the time the fall came they had a solid grasp on the city's layout and had found their favorite stores for everything: coffee, tea, pastries, nuts, chocolate, bagels, scones, and candy. Thus the Sample Walk had been created, where they visited all their specialty stores, slowly collecting their favorite things until they had a little bit of everything.

When Cece and her mother stepped out of the house, Cece knew it was going to be a perfect day for a Sample Walk. The sky was bright blue without a cloud in view and the air was warm without the heaviness of humidity. The walk took an hour, but they finally reached their final stop for bagels then they walked to the water's edge and found a bench.

As they dug into all their goodies, Marilyn caught Cece up on all her doings in Rome. Marilyn was working on her next play and decided to write it in Rome. Cece listened intently as her mother told her all about the life she had built over the last few months in Rome. The corner cafe where the owner flirted with her, her favorite walks to work out story problems, the family of birds outside her window.

Cece was always in awe of her mother's writing. Just like Elliot, her mother produced. It didn't matter where or the circumstances. Her mother could be in a studio apartment in Arkansas instead of Rome but that wouldn't keep her from writing. As Cece listened to Marilyn explain the complex storyline of her latest play, Cece's usual doubts began to creep in.

Why was she the only one who struggled with writer's block? As far as she knew, Elliot's only interaction with writer's block was dealing with Cece's. Her mother was working on her nineteenth play, and Tristan had produced full ballets in his sleep. It was only Cece who was honored by the hideous presence of writer's block.

"What are you thinking about?" Marilyn asked after Cece had gone quiet. Cece looked at her mother, hesitant to share her concerns. "Malcolm?" Marilyn guessed.

Cece laughed harshly. If she ever went as far as giving her writer's block a name, this round would be named Malcolm. It only seemed fitting to name it after the person who had bestowed it upon her. "Malcolm," she said like the name was acid on her tongue. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Me either," Marilyn said. "I'd rather talk about why you think you need him."

"Did Elliot put you up to this?" Cece joked. Marilyn gave a small smile but her eyes were studying Cece. Cece looked away, hating how her mother could see through any facade she tried to hide behind.

She looked back and found a mixture of empathy and support in her mother's gaze and she hated it. Her writer's block had received enough empathy and support she was surprised it wasn't a fully formed human that followed her around.

"I work differently," Cece said defensively. "I'm not like you and Elliot who would be writing even if you were on a plane that was crashing."

"Well, an experience like that should be documented," Marilyn joked lightly.

"And you and Elliot would be the ones to do it, while I would be the one curled into a ball preparing for impact."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Marilyn said. "I'm sure you would be in the back trying to keep all the food and carts in place."

"Exactly!" Cece said. "I would be more fixated on keeping the plane clean. That's what I do. I organize and keep things clean. That's what I'm best at." When her mother didn't affirm that, Cece looked at her. She was looking at Cece like Cece was spewing lies.