Work Text:
You're not good enough. Look at those words, how uninventive.
Shut up.
Why would I do that? You know you're not getting any better, no matter how much you try.
Leave me alone. I'm trying to work this scene out, and I don't have time for you.
Oh, but you make time for me every time you sit behind that silly little screen, trying to write about something you barely understand.
I understand better each time I try, every word I write, every time I do some research or ask someone about it.
Progress? You're chasing love with your saccharine, hollow scenes. Love you'll never know. Fiction's your cage, and you're locked in tight.
Fuck you.
Haha, you wish you could, but why give you the satisfaction? No, no, no, I'll just be over your shoulder, whispering into your ear like I am now.
Leave me alone. I've got things to do.
Yes, those things you do, pointless as they are. Look at the views you get—nothing compared to others. You're just not good enough. Admit it, stop creating, stop writing your lurid things, accept it.
No.
Look how you struggle to put one word after another on that page, you who lacks the feeling of touch. How you run around in other universes, creating love between others that you barely understand yourself. Accept it, no one will love you.
…
Struck a nerve, have I? I'll keep doing it until you give up, no matter how much time passes. However you push me back, I'll still be right here waiting.
I'll still be here writing away, doing what I want to do, no matter how good or bad it is perceived.
And still not understanding. Pathetic. I'll be right back along to remind you of all your failings.
It's always worth trying, even if I fail—one thing you have always failed to get me to do. Giving up. Even if I just stagnate, I still haven't given up.
Give up. It's so easy. Just put the mighty pen and paper down, fade into obscurity like so many others. Admit you will not succeed; you will fail like everyone else.
No. Now I have work to do, characters to create, and research to run along. Now back to your little corner—that corner you know you can't get out of, trapped as well in the back recesses of people's minds where you can rot.
Leave.
Fine, you're still not rid of me. Can't be rid of me. I'll be here waiting for you to falter, that little moment of weakness that I'll snatch at.
I know that, and I'll be right here telling you to fuck right back off into that dark corner.