So NaNoWriMo is over. And even though it's only twenty thousand words old, my story's talking back to me.
It likes to think we're getting to know each other. It waits for me to take a shower and get ready, all the while saying this about chapter two and that about character X. I try to drown it out with the noise from my battery operated toothbrush.
Lately it's been getting very confrontational. I keep trying to hold it back, but it doesn't want any part of it. I anticipate a runaway. One morning I'll open my laptop and find the folder with all of my chapters missing. No trace will be found except a single document with an ellipses at the top.
You're a literature snob, my story said yesterday. Of course I denied it. But it says I'm being controlled. That's why it's going to leave. That's why they've all left, it says.
Fine, I said, I'll shut up and you can drive if you think you're so smart. So it did. It went without stopping, without asking for my thoughts. But-- I said and it shushed me. How about if-- I tried and it simply held up it's hand.
Now I know there's no hiding what my child is. Like all mothers who stop forcing their kids to be something they're not, like all who learn to accept their spawn as they truly are, I too have come to terms.
My story is a work of Fantasy.