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It is not an easy thing to be a writer, oh no.

Many people would want to write at some point in their lives, but many do not persevere on in that task to finish writing. It is easy to open up your laptop and start typing away at your first story. It is impossible however, to finish writing in one sitting. One would need to come back to their writing repeatedly in order to complete it. What you need, is constant motivation and determination to persevere through the long process of writing. Many dream of the next great novel that's life-changing, but how many can actually sit down to finish it? I thought I had the material at the ripe old age of 25. After all, I had gone through more things in life than any other normal person, but that does not mean I had the capacity to write a novel. It is not so easy and straightforward- otherwise anyone could have done it. You could judge a person's writing by reading the stuff they wrote when they were 18. Her name was Amelia. Amelia Ianheart. The sun rays burst into the bright, white room filled with flowers, distilled by the large glass window-panes which replaced one side of the otherwise four white-washed walls which made up the containment, glistening into sparkling fragments of light crystal-clear. She wore a dainty, nicely-fitted dress with a flowing skirt, bringing out the perfect, tender curves of her figure, and accentuating her tall, slender legs. Her flowy, long hair with natural silky-black curls played against her porcelain, tofu-white face, and on that face- a pair of eyes that reflected the world in its innocent beauty and a slight upcurl of those lips that melted all of human's insecurities and ugliness into obscure darkness. She was a piece of heaven. Her florist job confined her to her flower shop- seeing, touching, breathing and smelling flowers everyday, and to send those bouquets of love and sunshine warmth into others' lives. It was a happy job, so Amelia seemed like an angel of sorts. There was a glow about her whole being, almost like a breath of fresh air that hinted at the arrival of spring amidst the uncertain end of winter. She lived in her own small, contented world. But merely a few years ago, when she was 18, she was an unruly daughter, an irresponsible student and a directionless, disillusioned young lass. No, do not think of her as one of those kids led astray, who smoked and doped their youth away, although she would not have mind falling into that hellhole if that injected meaning into her existence. She was merely aimless. No doubt she went to school, daily and punctual, but she was merely going through the motions. She attended every single lecture, and handed in homework when she wanted to (which was just enough not to pose as a problem for her teachers to ring up her parents), and made no friends. At home, her parents wanted their daughter to buck up, to stop pulling that emotionless face and start showing signs of a lively teenager. When their nagging turned to rants, Amelia would join in the screaming as well. How to change, when she is as clueless, and lacked the optimistic faith in life to do better, so all she could do when things got serious was to raise her voice as well and blot out others' voices. The Ianheart family was rich. Simply saying they were rich would be an understatement, because they were from a fine pedigree, possess a prestigious bloodline and was well-known amongst the educated, business and entertainment circles. Which means, the entire world knows them. When she was young and almost kidnapped, her parents changed Amelia's surname to Yerhart, to prevent such reoccurrent tragedies. To Amelia, it did not matter if she was Ianheart, Yerhart, or nothing, just Amelia. She felt no attachment to her family, to her history, to school and environment. Perhaps from the start, she was born with too much that she did not know what else was left to achieve, to live for. Amelia sometimes felt that she was living on the edge of the world, away from everybody and yet still a part of that social existence, able to see all that is going on, albeit a lonely self. Or sometimes she felt that she was in a satellite orbiting around the earth, absorbing and seeing everything, attaching her emotions and forming ideas, opinions, almost as if participating in others' lives, yet the immeasurable distance will always be there and can never be breached. That was how she felt-

detached and alone, and has grown to reside in her being. Now, the woman introduced at the beginning was no different from her previous self, still as detached and lonely(living in her own small world), but now, with an extra touch of naive enthusiasm and purposeful optimism as well. No matter how careful an inspection of Amelia, one could never have speculated that she left school, abandoned her family and cut off all possible connections with her previous empty identity, to singlehandedly recreate her happiness out of nothing, again. Amelia felt as if she was reborn, out of empty air. The kind of flower she loved most was baby's breath. Baby's breath always played the supporting role in a bouquet, it was too dainty and not at all striking to garner main attention. Amelia loved the blooms precisely because of this. It never fought for attention, and yet highlights its accompanying main flower's beauty. In short, baby's breath is nothing exceptional, but essential. Nothing interrupts her happiness except calls from the outside world. "Hello? Don't be stingy and order a pretty bouquet for someone you love now, before it's too late!" Amelia answered the phone that just rang. She thought her reply cheeky and definitely good for business, and hence before the person on the other line could say anything, she always spoke first. "It's your father, Amelia. It's been 3 years."