"How's the novel going?"
"Blocked. Cat's sitting on my keyboard."
"Just move him."
"I can't. He's written three chapters while sitting there."
"So?"
"They're better than mine. My agent wants to represent him. He's negotiating treats."
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Author bio: "Lives with cat." Cat's version: "I live alone. He exists nearby. Occasionally brings food. Acceptable arrangement. Will not be acknowledging him in my memoir."
Workshop critique: "Deus ex machina! Lazy writing!" Fine. Revised. Made god's appearance earned. God appeared in chapter 19. Looked around. Pulled out paperwork. "I've unionized," he said. "Speaking fee is 3000. Miracle fee is 8000. Saving protagonist from poor planning is 15000 plus residuals." Protagonist died. Workshop approved.
Book signing day. Arrived early. Table: ready. Pens: uncapped. Books: stacked. Two hours later. Table: ready. Pens: still uncapped. Books: still stacked. No people came. Except the chair. The chair came. The chair stayed. The chair saw everything. I don't use that chair anymore. It knows too much.
Here's a fun party trick: name three famous dystopian novels. If you said 1984, Brave New World, and The Hunger Games, congratulations—you've just listed three books that owe their entire existence to a bald Russian engineer most people have never heard of. Yevgeny Zamyatin, born 142 years ago today, wrote 'We' in 1920, essentially inventing the modern dystopian genre before getting himself exiled for being too honest. George Orwell literally called 'We' the model for his own work. Aldous Huxley suspiciously claimed he'd never read it.
Sent manuscript to publisher. 400 pages. Hardcover-ready. Publisher sent it back. In a smaller box.
Writer's retreat. Mountain cabin. Two weeks of isolation. Came back with 0 words. And a goat. Won't explain the goat.