I wanna change channels.
Finally, oh Literati,
Terri Leigh Relf has turned her writer’s block into sawdust and is (here comes my favorite word!) submitting! Have you submitted yet? You’ll feel better for it. Just undue that little hasp on the menu bar that says “Contests” and I’ll do the rest.
Here is something she didn’t write:
by Terri Leigh Relf
“You didn’t write that!” She glared at me, hands on hips.
“No, you couldn’t possibly have.” She paced back-and-forth, emphatically tapping her black-patent-leather stilettos in the interstitial spaces between my erratic heartbeat.
“Well, if I didn’t, then who did? That’s my name in the byline, my name on the contract—and the check.”
“Don’t get that tone with me, young lady!” She glanced at the face of her new Michael Kors’ watch. “Then give me scenario. . .starting. . .,” she followed the second hand, “right. . .NOW!”
I swallowed, shook my head. I couldn’t defend myself by reciting a single turn of phrase, a single moment in the character’s life, not even a single defining plot point.
“I’m waiting,” she hissed, tossing her sleek black hair over a Channel-clad shoulder.
“If I didn’t, then who did?” I managed to croak out.
“You tell me, young lady. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were cheating on me—or worse!”
“What’s worse than cheating on your Muse?”
She glanced at the stack of books with my name emblazoned on the covers, shuddered.
“Channeling dead writers.”
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