“Tell me a story.”
The Muse gave her Writer a withering look, “What, you mean beside the nine thousand plot bunnies I’ve herded into line today? Really, why on earth do you feel the need to backwrite snippits? It’s not like anyone is going to care if you miss a day or two.”
“I care, now tell me a story.” The Writer was curled up in bed (fluffy comforter pulled close) having lived primarily on Advil and Sudafed for most of her workday. “Story.”
“Once upon a time there was a really tired Muse–”
“A proper story!”
“Kid, that is a proper story. We’ve got a protagonist, me; an antagonist, you; an impossible task, and heck, let’s thrown in some magic plot coupons while we’re here.
The Plot Dragon glared at the Muse from under the desk.
“Oh not you, you scaly wonder, I mean a singing sword or somesuch nonsense.”
The Plot Dragon was not mollified. Much.
“Or we could go with the one where the Writer gets up and does her homework like a responsible adult and stops making her Muse do all the work.”
“Not my genre!” The Writer made faces from within her blanket fortress. “More story, less stalling!”
“Fine, fine… Rodney lived on a
small farm ancient city in the country of Florin Alantis–”
“–His favorite past-times were complaining, science, complaining, and tormenting the
farm boy air force pilot that worked there. His name was John, but Rodney never called him that. Isn’t that a wonderful beginning?”
“I have a feeling you’re mocking me, and yet I don’t care…”