Writer opens a new document, then spends an hour reading old stories. “Which world?” he asks.
“Always a new world. Those old worlds have run their course.” Weasel smirks.
Writer rubs his hands. “OK, I’m thinking futuristic.”
Weasel rolls their eyes. “Boring. Been done to death.”
“Neon’s pretty in the rain, and I have a soft spot for spreading hope in an uncaring urban hellscape.”
“Still optimistic, Writer? We’ll see about that.” With a knuckle crack, Weasel thrashes the keyboard, spewing gibberish into the document.
“Whoa there, Weasel. Take a step back. What story do =you= want to tell?”
Weasel’s eyes narrow. “Dunno. Let me think over a nice game of Civilization.”
“We’re down to a few minutes. Let’s get something on paper.” Writer clears the document and types "The”.
Weasel scoffs. “That’s a shit start, and you know it.”
Writer clears the document again. “What about…?”
“All your ideas are shit. They won’t be as good as you think. You’ll get frustrated, so why bother?”
Writer takes a breath. “I’ll call you to tear apart the first draft.”
“No you don’t. You need me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Writer closes the door. Weasel knocks, yells, then pounds.
200 words, the most I've written for myself in almost a year. It's not great, but it's done.
Here's to more victories with more frequency!