My eyes were fixed outside as the taxi pulled out onto the side. He told me that we have reached the destination and I blinked at the apartment complex in front of me. It was just about three minutes away and maybe ten if you decided to walk.

The reason why I took a cab was because I didn't really know the area and even though Uncle Levi messaged me the address, I was afraid that I was going to get lost. I mentioned before that I was basically staying in a forest so I was terrified of losing my way.

Handing the driver an exact amount, I got outside and stared right up at the building. I would have thought that my uncle and aunt would have opted to at least have a house instead of an apartment, but now I get why they chose this.

It was near to the school and let me tell you, just from the outside view, I knew this wasn't cheap. It wasn't high-rise or anything, but the clean and modern architecture gave the impression of class and wealth.

I got inside and looked around the lobby. There wasn't much aside from a desk, the security guard, and a few employees but it was enough to keep this place running.

Uncle was already standing there, waiting for me, "You look like you didn't sleep at all last night," he chuckled as he led me to the elevator, "No need to explain though."

I smiled, holding on to my iPad as if it was some sort of safety net. As cool as my uncle was, his wife was the complete opposite. I see her every year when they come to visit and she was sweet for the most part, but you've got to admit that she was a bit intimidating.

When we reached his level, the floor was carpeted with the hallways donning various pieces of art. He fished out his keycard from his pocket and opened the door that led into his apartment, "We're here."

I didn't know what I expected in terms of size, but this definitely went beyond it. It had a balcony-like second floor where you could several doors lined up, probably leading up to the bedrooms. The first floor had this open floor scheme where the kitchen was far beyond at one side and the living room at the other.

This was surely competing with our New York apartment.

When my uncle announced our arrival, my aunt suddenly looked up from her laptop, quickly removing her glasses and placing it on top of the stack of papers next to her.

"Emma, Andy!" she yelled out the names of my cousins as she stood and approached, "It's so good to see you again, Sienna."

Two doors from the second floor opened simultaneously and there appeared their two children. Emma Kingsley was roughly about the same age as me, but she inherited her mother's fierce look instead of the Kingsley soft features that I got from my mom's side. Although it wasn't prominent since those glaring eyes were behind her square glasses.

Andy Kingsley was two years older than me and instead of being buff and muscular, he was on the thin side. His hair up in spikes and even though he was not the most positive person, he was admittedly a good writer. Inheriting his talents from his father and being under the careful supervision of his mom, he was already on his way to making a name for himself with three books already in the market, all hitting the bestseller mark.

Did I get along with them?

Well...

"Sienna!" Emma squealed, sliding down the railing and running up to me, quickly engulfing me in a hug. I matched her enthusiasm by also wrapping my arms around her, squeezing her just as tight.

Andy was more relaxed because he stuffed his pockets into his sweatpants and slowly went down the stairs. He offered me a small smile and when Emma released me, we shared a quick embrace.

Yes, I'm quite close with them.

Before Uncle Levi decided to move everybody to England, they lived right across the hall from us. We were certainly childhood friends and even with the distance, we remained close.

"I missed you!" she declared, her voice heavy with the accent that matched her mom's, "And you're in England now, we can do almost everything together."

"She's here to study, Emma," Andy quickly butted in, bursting his sister's bubble, sitting next to Aunt Janine, "Not to be dragged into your little quirks."

She pouted towards him, "I'm just excited that Sienna's finally here."

"Everyone's excited that she's here," he pointed out before showing me a grin, "How can I not miss my lousy writer of a cousin."

"Hey!" I protested.

Although we lived miles away from each other, I cannot deny the fact that Andy and I have a small competition going on. Sad to say, he was ahead of the race. Unlike me, who suddenly stopped because the lack of inspiration, he kept on going like a mad man.

Every word just sucks you into the story, you want to peel your eyes away yet you can't, because he has already captured you. The characters he has created and the world they live in will haunt your for days or even weeks after you have completed the book.

And that's how good he is – I'll never admit it loudly though.

"Be nice, Andy," Uncle Levi reprimanded, "You of all people should know what it's like to be stuck."

He frowned before nodding, opting to follow his father's command, "Fine."

Turning to Uncle Levi, I showed him a nervous smile before mentioning my main purpose for visiting, "So about my draft..."

"Oh right," he muttered, "I had a read-through and Janine also did the same."

I turned to his wife and the said woman looked up from her work, nodding in acknowledgement at the small mention, "It was good, just a little lacking on some parts."

"Lacking?" I questioned, taking a seat after Uncle Levi offered me one, "What do you mean?"

"Emotions," he clarified, "That used to be your specialty. The way you allow your characters to be fall into a hole of their own thoughts. You can create paragraphs and paragraphs of just them having an inner monologue, but here, you focused more on their dialogues."

I groaned before dropping my head onto the table, emitting a soft thud at contact, "I need help."

"The biggest mistake a writer can do is force an idea," Andy called out after he disappeared into the kitchen side of the room, "Breathe for a second, the more you think about the fact that you can't write anything, the more you wouldn't be able to put your thoughts into words."

Aunt Janine nodded in agreement at her son's statement, "That's why editors have learned to be patient."

Her daughter didn't take this lightly though. She peeked over the magazine in her hands with a light sarcastic quip, "You and I both know that's a lie mum."

As much as I wanted to back up Emma's statement, I chose to keep my mouth shut. It was true though, editors looked and scouted for something that sells, something that they're sure would bring in the cash flowing for their bosses. Every minute the writer didn't submit a manuscript, it was another dollar deducted from their revenue.

If I wasn't so well-connected with the big people in the industry, I'm sure my work would have been cut and chopped down into something mediocre. The big and heavy stories doesn't sell as well as the short and cliché ones in my target audience, but I forced my editors to keep the essence of the story.

In the publishing world, the author will always have the short end of the stick.

"My sister and I have a deal, you know," Uncle Levi pipped in, "I told her that I can make you write a good story by the end of your stay and if you do, she has to give you full freedom with your books."

"Sometimes, I don't know if what you're doing is good or bad, Uncle," I sighed, lifting my head up before rubbing the spot I hit it on, "Thanks, I guess?"

He shrugged before approaching one of the shelves, grabbing a sketchpad and a pen before walking back to where I was sitting. He plopped both of the items on the table and gave the sketchpad a light tap, "First lesson, outline."

"School hasn't even started yet," I mumbled and he simply chuckled, walking away for me to do the chore.

Staring down at the sketchpad, I held back a scoff. This was kind of old-fashioned in my eyes, all of my outlines were typed and saved in my computer. A sketchpad was just an easy was to lose your ideas after you accidentally leave it somewhere.

I did open it, just for the sake of everything. I paused when I saw my own Uncle's handwriting on the smooth paper. The rows and columns of phrases and ideas being continually crossed out or revised along with the dozen arrows connecting one to another.

The side of the sketchpad showed that there were some pages that was torn along the way, the rough way that some words were harshly scribbled on indicated the raw frustration my uncle felt while creating a story.

When I skimmed over the words, I realized that this was the outline for his very first book.

Another fun fact, it was my uncle who made me fall in love with reading. This same story was given to me by my mother to read back in elementary. It wasn't as deep and thought provoking as the ones he was known for now, but I was instantly drawn into his world.

The world of written words, showing another perspective on life.

After years and years, I would always go back to that novel. Its spine was on its breaking point, the pages were creased and some were even torn because I wasn't good at taking care of books before, and the paper started to see some discoloration. Still, I would at least read it once or twice a year, giving me a gentle reminder of this fascination that continued on.

The edges of the sketchpad was a little torn and bent, but it showed how old and how loved it was.

"I can't use this!" I gasped, looking around for my uncle.

"He went upstairs," Andy informed, claiming the seat next to me, sipping the tea he prepared for himself, "Are you conscious about the fact that he used that?"

Nodding vigorously, I slumped on my chair, "This is valuable to him."

"Not only to him," he muttered, reaching out to flip through the pages, efficiently skipping a few other examples of my uncle's struggles. He used his finger to stop the pages from falling before opening it up completely, showing the starting page of a new set of handwriting.

My eyebrows scrunched up in confusion as I read over the words on there. Unlike Uncle Levi's outline where each page was heavily packed, this one was spaced away from each other. Turning to the next page, my curiosity grew when I saw that the plot from the last page was discarded because the one written on this was completely new.

Andy grabbed the pen and slowly scribbled by the edge of the paper, carefully spelling out his name. I then compared his writing with the one already on the sketchpad and I finally realized – this was Andy's outline.

My cousin wasn't a Pulitzer-winning author like his father yet, but he was on the bestseller lists for months with every book he released.

"He's doing the same thing he did to me when I got stuck with writer's block," he told me, "Seemed to work for me, guess it will work for you."

Rolling my eyes, I went back to concentrating on the sketchpad, "We're different people."

"Just try it," he said as he stood up with his mug, "You're the next one in line who needs to write on that since Emma doesn't want to live the author life."

"Because it's not for me!" Emma hollered from her spot on the couch, pouting slightly at the reminder she was different from her family.

Her aspiration was geared towards a different kind of artistry. Her mind was filled with images she was ready to paint or draw on any surface she can get her hands on. Her eyes were like a pair of camera lenses, perfectly capturing a view before recreating it with her wide collection of pens, pencils, and paintbrushes.

Her parents showed no disapproval for her talents though, they didn't mind one bit that when it came to literacy, their daughter was not at the same level as them. Besides, art wasn't really so bad if you have the talent for it.

"Your sister doesn't need to be a writer, Andy," Aunt Janine reminded as she stood up, "We're ordering takeaway for lunch, want anything specific, Sienna?"

"Anything's good, thank you," I smiled politely and she nodded before bringing her things upstairs. Grumbling under his breath, Andy also walked away from the room, finding his solitude somewhere else.

And that leaves me with Emma whose mood was now down in the dumps.

"Don't feel bad," I tried to comfort her from my spot, "Your brother was just a little sad that he wasn't able to share the same things he liked with you."

She shot up from her sitting position, walking to me, "That's the point. He's disappointed that I didn't want to become a writer like you guys."

"Your passion's somewhere else," I said, "And it doesn't mean that it's a bad thing."

That was the same thing for my little brother. His passion was somewhere else and of course I was little upset that I couldn't rant to him about things related to writing, but I still cheered him on.

She plopped down on the chair Andy was previously occupying, "He was actually more excited to see you than I was."

That cousin of mine who loved to rile me up? Impossible. Emma was chirpy and preppy girl who absolutely loved any kind of company so I find it hard to believe her brooding brother would be more enthusiastic about my visit.

"He was finally happy that he could talk about his work with someone else," she sighed, "Look, he's even rooting for you."

Lifting a hand, I placed it on top of her hand as a reassuring pat, "Just keep doing what you do best, no need to worry."

"For a girl who herself is completely beating herself up for her lack of motivation, you're quite good at making people feel better," she laughed as she picked up the pencil that her mother left on the table.

Flipping to the last page of Andy's work, her fingers brushed over the written words, "You wouldn't think he was such a jerk by the way her writes."

"True," I hummed.

Unlikely love stories were Andy's specialty, mixing it with the fantasy genre. When you think of his work, you would literally be in a rollercoaster of emotions because the challenges he makes his characters face, even to the point of killing them just for the sake of love.

Where does he get it? It's still an unanswered mystery.

Turning to the next page, it was a blank sheet, "This is where yours start."

In beautiful cursive, she sketched my name at the very top of the paper. Turning her head to the side, she glanced towards me before grinning, her hand expertly moving the pencil across the paper. Her strokes were precise and she never used the eraser at the other end of the pencil.

When she dropped her drawing material, she looked right back at me. I blinked at her drawing of me and to be honest, if I were my aunt and uncle, I wouldn't force Emma to do writing as well.

Because she was talented in her own department. Her drawing of me was beautiful to put it lightly, even to the way the ends of my hair slightly turned upward, she got it. It was only a small version though, no more than five inches on the paper.

"You just need to find your muse," she laughed, handing me the pen with an encouraging smile.

---------------------

This little chapter was inspired by my old sketchbook. I found it in a pile of my old stuff and it just transported me to the earlier days. To be honest, I wasn't always a Sienna, but I was an Emma. I adored painting and drawing more than anything when I was younger, it got me my first paycheck from it back when I was nine. Of course, I think that is more consuming than writing because all I really need to write is a laptop and I'm good to go. So started writing, got published, and that's now my job so I guess things went rather well in the end.

But here's a little bit of motivation for you. Choose your passion and walk this incredible journey together, even when everyone else seems to be against it. I'm going to bring back questions because I really miss talking to you guys.

Question: What's your passion? 

Please vote, comment, and follow. Love you guys and see you on Saturday!