The writer sat at the small table she used as a desk. She hunched over her laptop, conscious of the dull ache in her lower back. The Word file was open, calling to her every few minutes or so. She tried to ignore it – she had missions to complete on Frontierville, and blog posts to write, not to mention knitting patterns to track down. Besides, she couldn’t possibly write now – she was listening to Skid Row and she could never write while listening to glam. No, she would get to her work in progress when she was done. The stuffed dog on her table seemed to adopt a look of reproach.
“Oh great, even Aston is a critic. Look, I said I’d write 2000 words this week and I’ve already done half of that!” said the writer.
Aston said nothing.
“I’m going to the loo. I promise I’ll do some actual writing when I come back.”
The writer left the room.
The writer pushed open the door, one hand curled into a ready fist. She’d left her laptop playing Youth Gone Wild and now it was midway through Haydn’s Cello Concerto in D. She looked around the studio flat but saw no intruder.
“Don’t be daft, who is going to let themselves into your flat just to change the music?” she asked aloud. Aston held his own counsel.
She realised she’d left Facebook open, but now the screen displayed her work in progress. Only it wasn’t quite her work in progress. A line of text interrupted the sixth chapter of the supernatural YA novel.
“My dear, you know that I admire your eccentricities, but would you kindly cease procrastinating and GET SOME WORK DONE?”
The writer gasped, before bellowing a single name.
I’m in the process of rewriting my Fowlis Westerby novel and I get the impression that one day, he will actually do this to me. I’ve already written the story of my editor, Aston, which you can find here.