There Are Those Days...

You know when you're wrestling with a story?

Hell, who am I kidding? Wrestling is when there are two competitors. In this case, Story and his cronies have you tied to a chair and they're beating the crap out of you. Character, theme, structure, format - the whole gang - are getting in their licks.

Punch! You're pissing blood.
Kick! There goes a rib.
Crack! Your jaw just broke. You're spitting teeth (and blood).
Another kick! Your balls are in your throat.

And you can't really tell what's going on 'cause the pain is blinding. You can barely see out of your one good fuckin' eye 'cause the other, it's swollen shut. Fact is, your whole face is one big fuckin' punching bag of a bruise, and if this shit keeps up you're going to curl up in a fetal position and wallow in your own feces.

And you think, When is the ref going to call this fight?

Then you realize that there is no referee.
No bell.
No audience cheering.
Nothing.
You're stuck in a dark, wet room all by your lonesome. You and Story and his pals.

And right now, you are Story's bitch (and he's reaching down to unzip his fly).

So as much pain as you're in, as much as it hurts to even breathe, you fuckin' suck in your gut.
You sit up.
Clear your throat.
Spit out the blood and teeth.
You look Story in that cold, smirk of a grin of his and say,

"You hit like a girl."

'Cause you are a fuckin' writer, and you don't lay down and take that shit from anybody.