This is a story about a woman who's had an intense passion for words. All she ever did was make stories and worked hard for it to be put on paper.
This is a story about Inka. The girl who either had a book or a pen.
This is also a story of how she died. How lonely she was at her deathbed. Alone because she didn't have anyone to be with her.

This is a story for you as well, reader. You'll know in the end.

•••

With the brief words given, Inka might sound like one of the most influential persons among aspiring writers, but she never became one.

She was a bad writer.

If one asks a writer what his or her life is like, he or she might say that they spend their whole life trying to put their feelings or experiences into words, and try to become better at it everyday or with every single publication, so they can make a living with it.
One can achieve this goal, if they're lucky enough.

Inka didn't have luck. But besides that, she also unfortunately lacked the talent.

I'm Elna, and I'm a journalist. I grew interested about Inka because I thought her life would make an interesting story. All she knew was write, but no one read a single of her work.
The ones that did however, told everyone else that she wasn't any good.
That's what I'm about to find out.

I'm going to find what's left of Inka's stories, maybe try and make something off it. Because as a writer myself, I can't help but empathize with the pain she must have felt while she was still alive. All the rejection and the rumors thrown at her for doing what she only knew how and loved.

For years, Inka was living off with nothing. She was practically begging her neighbors some food, and other than being an outcast in a tight little community far away, she was a nobody.
How did I come to know of her story?
Well that's my own story to tell in a different time.

•••
This is what I've come...