Some seasonal writerly fun... in seven parts. Kind of like Voldemort, only with less evil and more hair.
The Novel was dead as a doornail ten edits ago. Under-Achiever Stooge, the late novel's author, was a mean miser of words, a killer of Craft, an abuser of adjectives.
Late Deadline's Eve found him penned up in his office, dawdling, while his assistant, Bob Muse, attempted to stoke the fire of Inspiration. "Leave it," said Stooge. "Do you think books grow on trees?"
"No, sir," Mr. Muse said. "It's just that your prose is so cold, and the deadline's tomorrow."
"I suppose you think I shouldn't take the day off, am I right? Be gone with you."
Mr. Muse shuddered and took a step back from the word processor. "If I am to leave early, then, might I have my pages?"
Stooge waved him away with an ink-stained hand.
"To some it's acceptable behavior, I suppose, picking a man's brain, whatever the weather. Very well. Here are six sentences. Be gone, and be even later upon the next!"
Mr. Muse accepted the sentences with gratitude and ran home to his other authors, none of which Stooge knew about or cared.
"Bah, humbug!" Stooge said, shutting down his screen.
"Stoooooge!" said an empty voice. With a jump, Stooge looked around, but nobody was there.
"Hello? Who's there?" "Under-Achiever Stooooooooge." A visage of a book, ten edits dead, appeared before him. It was The Novel.