The Demon

The room is empty and I feel like there is someone watching me. It is 9 A.M. and the sun pours in though the open window of my office as I sit at the computer watching the colorful animated bubbles of the screensaver dart around aimlessly. I turn back and look out the window across the drive to my elderly neighbor who is diligently watering her fern garden again. Is she looking at me? Impossible. The child inside me tells me to slide open the closet door, and though I don't believe there is anyone there, I look anyway. Jackets, binders containing stashed away writings and old forgotten Halloween costumes, but nothing else.

 It has been almost a month since the second draft of my novel has been complete and I have double edited 99 pages of it so far. I am mourning the writing of story and hating the editing of it. I have no plans today to edit and I have a nagging guilt about that. With no realization of doing so I open the Word document containing my manuscript and I find myself staring without focus at page 100. I can't see the words clearly and they begin change shape before my zombie like gaze."You could start the new book. I know you want to." said a raspy voice projecting itself directly into my brain.

I can't move as the written word on the screen begins to shift and the words form a face with sinister blank white eyes staring through me. 

"NO. I have to edit." I scream at the monitor as if it were alive.

"Did God edit his creations? I think not. Start the new novel, no one will know."

"I'll know. I have to see this to the end."

"Who are you writing for? People don't deserve your work. We should keep on writing and not worry about edits or formats. These things are not important."

"Fuck you. Leave me alone. I need to edit so I can get my story polished."

"Your story is shit. You know that in your heart. Lets scrap it and write a new story. Oh, the rush of adventure. You know you want it. Just let go, it is fine. It's all fine."

"You don't control me you bastard." I say and press the power button on my monitor and the screen goes black.

"We will see." came a whisper from behind the wall. 

How My Novel Was Killing Me

I'll keep this short, but I wanted to mention how writing has recently changed my life for the better. I am a smoker and I realized that when I was working on my manuscript I was smoking 5 times as much as when I wasn't writing. Writing was slowly killing me and I wanted to hang around a little longer.

My bank account was draining and my lung capacity was shrinking so rather than giving up on writing or giving up on my routines I switched to a tobacco free alternative of a vaporizer pen. It's been over a month now and I haven't even thought about a traditional tar filled cancer stick. I love to smoke and now I have a healthier alternative. If you smoke and write, maybe you should consider this. I'm not preaching, just saying.