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The first story Renae Hunter wrote was a pop-up book in the third grade, and she has been passionate about storytelling ever since. Armed with a Bachelor's Degree in English from Brigham Young University-Idaho, she intends to become a renowned fantasy author who spends her daylight dreaming and her starlight writing furiously like the gremlin she is. She currently has way too many stories.
Three days. THREE DAYS. Of silence. C'mon, guys. I've been writing your story for six months, know you all like childhood best friends, and now you won't talk to me. I thought we had something, but no, now it's all “writer's block” this and “writer's block” that. Ugh, the things I do for love. I'm tired of all this quiet. I hate it. Why won't anyone tell me what's going on? That's your job, isn't it? To give answers when needed? Well, I need answers, and I need them as soon as they can be supplied. Writing is my sustenance, my SOUL, don't you see? To leave me so empty like this… you might as well starve me. And still your voices are silent, silent as a closed book. So I just have to wait. And wait again. And probably again. Yep. You are all so indifferent to my necessities, so uncaring! Or are you simply oblivious, truly and honestly oblivious? Wouldn't that be ironic? All the effort I put into making you who you are, and you can't even give me a straight answer. I thought you were supposed to be strong, well-developed! My writer's group says you are, and so do my roommates—but then, what do we really know? None of us have published anything yet. I'm sorry; I'm deviating again. If you'd just give me something to work with, though, we wouldn't have this problem. What's that line… “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die”? Yeah, that's you. Come on, just a little idea? A change of scenery, a snippet of dialogue? Maybe one of you is willing to be the sacrifice for the greater good? I promise your capture will be heroic, tragic, leaving all the readers with broken hearts. Well, unless it's you, Zulen. Sorry, man… OH COME ON! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I'VE BEEN STUCK ON THIS ONE FREAKING SCENE? IT'S EMBARRASSING! Sorry, I'm sorry, really—I had to get that out. I just feel so useless right now, y'know? And I guess these three days haven't been all bad; it's been kind of like a vacation side quest with you guys. But I DO need to write to pay rent, so… back to business. Let me make myself clear. I am the Author. You are the Characters. Your scene is at a standstill. I. Am. Not. Happy. Comprende? Good. Now, any ideas? (Except yours, Hayden; yours suck. And no, I am still not going to consider your hairspray-chainsaw proposal.) It needs to have some pizazz, something spicy to really get the story moving, you know? Preferably something that will lead smoothly into Idora's death scene so—NO, IT IS ABSOLUTELY STAYING, YOU UNGRATEFUL BLOB OF INK. NOBODY REALLY LIKED YOU ANYWAY. You know what, guys? I'm done with this chicanery. (Whoa, that's a cool word: chicanery. Haven't used that in a while.) You're really messing with my stuff. I think it's time to write a haiku or something, clear my head a bit with a different style. Sun goes slowly down Characters will not help me Getting very ticked Well, that was just depressing. I was GOING to focus on the sunset, the velvet hues, the molten light filtering through my water-stained kitchen window… Gosh, I really need to clean that…. What was I saying? I wonder if there's a god of writing, like Poseidon is the god of water. Some robed figure with ink-black eyes and parchment-colored clothes, her train filled with the ever-changing words of her humble scribe followers. Ooh, or instead of a train (cuz that's weird), they're tattoos on her skin—scribbles and ink blots and half-finished notes that appear and disappear as time goes by. And maybe she just has a thing against mortals, so she imposes blocks on our minds whenever we get too close to perfection. Yeah, that's totally it. That makes me feel much better. You may worship me now, Hayden. What? No, I don't have inky eyes, I just… You know what, forget it. I'm not gonna explain myself to a four-thousand-year-old toddler. ‘K, but dude. DUDE. I have an idea, cuz that description was lowkey epic. Buckle up, Idora—you're about to get stabbed with a godly quill pen. And it's gonna be AWESOME. Vacay over, people. Pack up the beach towels, and somebody get me a snack. We've got work to do. And you know what? Maybe this break was kinda good for me.
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