“I’m seriously considering just giving up on you.” Sam groused from the couch, as the fictive pulled out another beer from the interdimensional cracks between the cushions. She was still wearing her default hoodie, even though it was summer and sane people would have moved on to t-shirts. It was hard to lurk in t-shirts, so she just settled for the thinnest hoodie she could manage.
“You know it takes me forever to finish anything,” the Writer said without looking up from her keyboard. Over the years she’d gotten used to the magical (and semi-sentient) nature of her couch. “But I’m working on the whole motivation thing, see? Zombies!”
“The only reason you finished the draft of Inheritance was because you promised to send the draft to someone else.” Sam settled back into the couch with a professional-level sprawl. Her hair was having trouble figuring out what color it wanted to be, so it was slowly cycling through all the Manic Panic hair dyes. “It’s been ten years. We’ve got an outline. Gimme some promises.”
“I promise I’ll work on it?” The Writer offered hopefully.
The Writer sighed. “Look, I’ve got Three Tequila, Floor into Scrivener, but I need some word-building because this one is several stories in. I need to reread everything. to make sure I don’t contradict things” The Writer was looking over the notes from the ‘verse and starting to get a headache.
“Except no, you don’t.” Sam snorted. “Everything is rough draft right now, just pick this story and make it canon. If you need backstory in order to make this one work– MAKE IT UP. Sheesh.”
“But what if I need to change it later? What if it makes the other stories not work when I go back to them?”
“Then… come back and change this one?” The fictive shrugged. “It’s not like you are publishing them for real. I’m pretty sure they won’t throw you into Writer Jail if you change blog posts or eBooks.” She pulled a sandwich out of the couch. “Just write me something, dammit.”
“I object to your definition of real,” grumped the Writer. “I put a lot of work into these! They’re just as real as everything else out there.”
“Aaaaand no.” Sam waved the half-eaten sandwich. “No one else’s money is on the line with these. If they aren’t prefect it hurts no one and if you change them it only makes things better. So. WRITE.”
The Writer muttered unrepeatable things, which literally were unrepeatable because she was the Writer and she said so.
“Promises!” Objected Sam.
“Fine, fine.” The Writer solemnly held up her favorite doodling pencil. “I hereby swear by the Great Gods of Micron and Pental that I will post one section of this story every week, no matter how rough and no matter how much I think it sucks, so help me Muses.”
And they wrote happily ever after. Sort of.