In which I am at a loss because two of my characters from two different books write me letters.
To the author:
Now that you’ve been back from your writing hiatus for a full five days… get back to writing. I mean it. You said you would, but I’m doubting your word now.
Your fears that if you write the last consecutive scene you have plotted in my story you will get stuck is unfounded, unwarranted, and completely transparent as a shameless excuse to be lazy.
Or, if you really are concerned about it, maybe you should actually… oh, I don’t know… think about the next scenes after it, instead of constantly musing on scenes halfway through the book that will not be here anytime soon and that happen to be some of the most distressing ones for me.
Your priorities are skewed. Sort them out.
Or I promise you’ll regret it. Even if I don’t do anything about it. Which I’m beginning to change my mind about.
It comes to my attention that you are back from resting your mind on the subject of my tale and others.
It likewise appears that you have not decided to start again on penning them, because you are divided in your mind on whether to work on mine, or on the deeds of a certain person called Tare in a strange other world. (Yes, news of him has indeed reached us, even here in this strange and perilously beautiful forest where you have seen fit to leave us for so long now.)
I ask that you would kindly cease your worry, my lady. Go write of him. It is clear where your heart lies, and I will not be the one to keep you from it by having you pretend to yourself or to anyone else that you care about my story.
In all courteous fact, as I am not liking where my story is heading, you need not ever return to me, if it please you, Lady.
Whatever you deem best, of course.
I am, very coldly,