Lida

Darlings! Thank you so much for your responses to our Survey! With your fabulous input, our upcoming Course will be even more magnificent than we imagined. We truly are listening!

For example, a startlingly large number of you aren’t writing because you fear being eaten by zombies. O, Darlings, we can help you with that, and are already working on a new zombie module for the Course.

If you haven’t taken the Survey yet, I would be absolutely thrilled if you’d do it! It only takes a few moments, and you might win a lovely prize.

Your Exercise

In all the excitement of the Manifesto, I’m afraid we’ve neglected your Training Exercises. I’m so sorry, Darlings! Let’s kick things off again with a deliciously simple Mission: comfort. Ethelie will frown, as she ever does, but let’s not think of her tonight.

Set your timer and freewrite for ten minutes on the subject of Comfort. Keep your pen moving, even if you believe you have nothing to say; simply keep writing until the time has elapsed. Write by hand, on creamy and blank white pages, with a darkly flowing fountain pen, if you find that comforting. Or sit at your Type-Writing Machine, and be comforted by the sound of keys striking crisp paper. Simply keep the words coming.

What does Comfort mean to you? What experiences, sensations, tastes, scents, thoughts, do you find Comforting? Why do you deny yourself Comfort? What memories do you have of Comfort — or its lack? How do you Comfort others?

When you are quite finished, look over your writing. Find one comforting thing you can do for yourself right now — and do it.

Then, refreshed and rejuvenated, get back to your writing! Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe!

In the Comments

Tell us what you learned!

Lida

Darlings! O, Darlings. I trust you read Ethelie’s post yesterday? It is no doubt impolitic of me to speak out, but I fear I must disagree with her. O, she will be so cross with me!

All this talk of discipline, of iron will! Of steam and trains and engines! Of gears and machine-like precision and reliability! One commenter dreams of building a poetry robot!

The imagery, my darlings, simply does not work for me. Ethelie’s soul may be made of steam and steel and gears; mine is made of different stuff. And thus I shall re-envision things. Ethelie may be my supervisor at the Directorate, but she is not the supervisor of my heart and mind and soul.

Let us try a different metaphor.

Writing is my lover.

I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.

I feed my writing lobster dripping with butter; it feeds me strawberries and cream. I feed my writing pie. We lick each other’s fingers clean.

On a lazy afternoon, I curl up in bed with my writing for a warm and drifting nap. We hold each other late at night and whisper secrets by the flickering light of a candle.

I take my writing to a dark and smoky bar on the bad side of town and listen to sinful music and drink too much. I caress my writing as we dance and grow warm and insistent together.

I plant a garden with my writing: we labor in the sun until our limbs grow languid. We plant fertile seeds in moist furrows. I wipe dirt from my writing’s cheek, and a trickle of sweat from its neck. I lean in and smell the ripe scents of earth and sun and work, and I tell my writing it is beautiful.

I touch my writing, reveling in its textures, its softness and its sleek muscles. I trace my pen along its curves and planes. I take my writing in and hold it close and it cries out softly in my ear. There is nothing else; we do not need anything else; my writing and I are enough.

I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.

I want it every day; yes, please, more, more, please, O God.

Yes.

And you?

My darlings. It’s your writing. What metaphor rings true for you?

Create it. Share it in the comments.

Ethelie

O my little Tulips! I suggest you read this Splendid essay by Miss Caine, to be found on the Inter-Net.

After our last Adventure, in which Gustav’s brave and hideously obese Cat, Markus, leaped into the Fiery arms of certain Death, we were not our Usual Selves. It was as if a Ghastly Maisma fell upon the Directorate, oozed through its Ancient walls, into our Chamber, and infected us with Gloom.

I, at least, was able to Revive my Spirits by gazing upon our beautiful Manifesto. Whatever the Cost, the Manifesto was surely Magnificent. Gustav did not Agree, and wallowed in the Depths of Absinthe and Grief. Lida claimed to be Distraught on Gustav’s behalf, and to Mourn the Miners with whom she had Tarried, but found Abundant Recompense in the arms of the Beastmaster. Neither of them would do the Slightest Bit of Work! I fear the Directorate languished while they let their Emotions master them. Nothing I could say could return them to their Work.

Then, my little Quail-Eggs, I chanced to read Miss Caine’s work. She is splendidly Prolific, and in this Essay, describes her Method for achieving such Marvels. Can you guess? She has built a Habit of Writing, and now cannot resist Writing, any more than Lida can resist Temptation. She has built a Habit, and now it Propels her forward, inexorably. She learned the Skill; she learned the Iron Discipline; she now Produces with a Metronymic Regularity that is the envy of all.

Practice! Write! Improve! Write! Write!

Each Day, dedicate yourself to your Craft. Lift the Burden of your Words, that your Writing may become Stronger. Calibrate the Gears of the Machine of your Art, that it may Tick forward unceasingly. Be thou as a mighty Steam Engine, driving your Progress along great Steel tracks. All it takes is Daily Effort.

Indeed, when I chose to Create for myself a truly spectacular Laudanum Addiction, I found that daily Practice of my Art was essential, and that with sufficient Application, the Habit practically formed itself. Writing is much the same.

I must fly; Gustav just scurried into the Alchemy Lab, muttering something about an Elixer of Life. This cannot end well.

Tell me, in the comments! What kind of Machine will you Build for your Writing? What other authors do you admire for their Consistent Output?

In Part One of this tale, Our Heroes learned of their Urgent Need for a Manifesto (lest their Web-Site license be revoked!), and traveled Bravely to the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. Upon arrival, they found themselves Surrounded by angry Miners with Rifles! In Part Two, Lida distracted the hostile miners while Gustav and Ethelie crept into the mine. Many hours later, our Intrepid Trio fled Kazakhstan just moments before the mine exploded!

Gustav

I have hesitated: I do not know if this woeful tale should be told. There are reasons why strong men blanch at the thought of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan; there are reasons even the most hardened criminals speak of it only in whispers; there are reasons, my friends, why I will never tread its paths again, even had it not been destroyed in the explosion as we fled.

I did not wish to tell you, for the horrors of your own mind are sufficient for your torments; I did not wish to add to your burden. Ethelie argued that we must show our Vulnerability, be Open and Authentic to connect with our Agents. A splendid argument, I’m sure, but I held my ground: I would not have a generation of writers driven insane by my dark tale.

Then Lida took my trembling hand, and gazed fondly into my eyes, and simply said, “You must, Gustav. You must warn them.”

She was consoling, and she was right: I could not let any other writers venture unknowingly into the perils of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. I shall complete the tale.

The Festering Darkness Embraced Us.

Once we saw that Lida had the irate miners firmly in hand, Ethelie and I took up our equipment and crept into the mine. We heard no sounds of pursuit, but it was not until we had turned the first corner that I paused to light a flickering light against the foul darkness. This darkness was no mere absence of light; it seemed to have an oily presence of its own, which pressed insinuatingly against my skin. I shuddered, but would not be daunted. No, my friends, I would not be daunted until we were much deeper in the bowels of the mountain.

I peered into the heavy bag I bore upon my shoulder: it contained Markus, my astonishingly corpulent cat, whom I love more than any other creature in the world. I should not have brought him, I know–O how I know! Do not burden me with your recriminations!–but I could not bear to be parted from him, and I found his purring weight a great comfort as we trudged through the labyrinthine passages of the Mines.

“Hurry,” Ethelie said, her face stern, as usual. “Lida will not be able to distract them for as long as we’d like. She overestimates her skills.” She prodded one of the canaries—a writer who simply refused to write, no matter what measures we took– with her umbrella. He protested, but one glance at her face was sufficient to silence him, and he led us deeper into the tunnels. Ethelie watched him carefully for any signs of peril, but for a seemingly endless trudge through the tunnels, it seemed all was safe and quiet.

It was not.

The First Canary Suffocated.

Unbeknownst to us, a noxious and strangling gas oozed out of the depths of the earth, turning the air impure. The canary stood before us, clutching his throat, gasping desperately for air, his face turning dark and slack, and ultimately collapsed. Ethelie fastened her gas mask more firmly and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s dead,” she said, her words muffled by her mask. Poor lad; he was only eighteen. If only he had been willing to Write, what a long and marvel-filled life he might have had. I was thankful Lida was not here to make an insipid pronouncement about how this shameful loss was “just like writing.”

There was nothing we could do for him. I avoided squashing him as I stepped over his body and continued down the tunnel, Markus thumping heavily against my back with every step, a weighted counterpoint to my pace.

The other canaries did not fare much better than the first.  The second fell to some sort of tentacled horror; Ethelie dispatched the beast with her pistol. I had to calm Markus after the shot, for the sound terrified him and he yowled. Ethelie looked surprised that I had smuggled Markus in, then glowered, but did not say anything; she just pursed her lips and waited impatiently until we were ready to continue.

The third and fourth canaries died when a tunnel collapsed; the fifth drowned by an angry dwarf; the sixth was pierced by a stalagtite, and I cannot say if the stalagtite fell or was hurled by some dark horror awoken by our passage. We had only one canary left, and we still hadn’t found a Manifesto. The mines were ancient, and the richest veins had been exhausted years ago: but we could not return without our Manifesto.

We Find the Manifesto!

Deep under the mountain, time loses meaning: there is nothing but your steps, the constant pressing darkness, your faint light, your obese cat purring against your back. I do not know how long we wandered, urgent and seeking; but I know that at long last, we reached our goal.

I heard Ethelie gasp, and raised the lantern higher. It cast its fragile beams on what we’d been seeking: a Manifesto. O, my friend, it was an absolutely magnificent specimen, and I could not imagine why it had not been wrested from the earth long before now.

Then I heard terrible claws scraping against stone, and knew: this manifesto was protected by a dragon.

We Confront the Dragon.

Ethelie cursed; I have never heard her use such language before. “Run!” she shouted to me — but she turned to face the monster, raising her tiny pistol in her quaking hands, even though she had to know it would be no use to the fire-breathing horror that hunted us.

“No,” I said. I could not let her die alone!

“Fine,” she said, and shoved the gun in my hand as she ran past. She grabbed the Manifesto, which separated from the living stone with a strange squelching-ripping sound. She grabbed the lantern, as well, and the grasping darkness finally won possession of my person.

So be it. I exist to serve the Directorate; and if the best way I can do that giving my life so that Ethelie might flee with the Manifesto, then so be it. I consoled myself with the belief that my death would be instantaneous; it would not take long for me to die when engulfed in dragon-fire.

A great wind blew through the tunnel as the dragon inhaled, preparatory to incinerating me with a massive exhale; it would only be seconds.

I pulled Markus out of the bag and clutched him to my chest, though my arms could barely support his bulk. I buried my face in his musty fur, and waited. In those agonizing seconds, I first felt him purr, and then heard it, until there was nothing left in the world but the warmth of his body, his sound, his scent –

An instant later he yowled fiercely and squirmed in my arms. I could not hold him! I am too weak! I–

I am sorry. Allow me to collect myself.

The End

I could not see through the impenetrable dark, but I could feel and I could hear. Markus leaped out of my arms and hurled himself through the darkness toward the beast, howling and screeching as fiercely as if he were a whole pack of VerbHounds. I heard him land on the dragon with a meaty thump and I heard the dragon’s claws thrashing against the walls of the mine and I ran.

I ran.

I could not save Markus and I could not stand with him. I simply ran. Behind me, Markus’s battle with the dragon raged on — and as you know from Part II of this woeful tale, it ultimately lead to the complete destruction of the entire mines.

O Markus!

The rest of the tale does not bear telling. We boarded Lida’s zeppelin and sailed away from Kazakhstan forever. Ethelie gripped the Manifesto in her bony hands the entire voyage, eyes glinting as viciously as the dragon’s, while Lida prattled on about the Lessons she’d learned about Vulnerability and Struggle and Sacrifice and Pie and Duty.

Markus’s headstone lies beneath the old cherry tree beside the kraken’s pond, though his body was destroyed along with, one assumes, that of the dragon and all those miners. I visit it often, remembering my friend’s bravery, and cursing my own cowardice.

His epitaph? “Enjoy your damn manifesto.”

Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe.

Ethelie

O my little Jelly Donuts!

Last week, we released our Manifesto, to great Acclaim. Our deepest Thanks to all who Read it and helped us Spread the Word. And if you have not yet read it, Fie! Read now!

We released it with a simple Click of a Button, a virtual Wave of the Hand, which made it look Effortless. So we Wished you to Believe: for we are the Fiction-Writing Directorate, and we are Experts. Yet the byword of this brave new Inter-Net is Authenticity. Vulnerability. And so we must share our Travails with you, in order that you may Learn from our Experience.

Thus, the Tale of the Manifesto’s Birth.

Our Rude Awakening.

O my little Acorn Squash! The Fiction-Writing Directorate has been having such a Lovely time with the Inter-Net. We’ve written Posts. We’ve gotten Comments. We’ve learned Twitter. We’ve made new Friends. We’ve helped Writers avoid the Terrible Consequences of not Writing. Everything was going Swimmingly — or so we Thought.

Our ignorant Bliss was rudely Interrupted upon receipt of a Missive from the Inter-Web Licensing Council. It said, it the Sternest Terms, that their Inspectors had determined we lacked a Manifesto, and if we did not Remedy this situation promptly, our Inter-Net License would be withdrawn!

O, the horror! I am ashamed to admit that I swooned.

When I awakened, one thing was Clear:

We Needed a Manifesto.

Never mind how we got this Far without realizing this Critical Requirement; all that mattered now was that we Remedy our Lapse.

“A Manifesto of the Quality we require can only be found in one Place,” Gustav told us. A terrible Shadow fell over his Face, as he Considered the true Horror of his words. “It can only be had at Great Personal Risk. It can only be had after Defeating sundry Enemies and our own Fear. However, it should be a Marvelous Adventure — if we Survive.”

“Why, that sounds like Writing,” simpered Lida. “Writing is also a Marvelous Adventure! Which requires Overcoming Fear, and Numerous Obstacles.”

“Except for the ‘only one place’ part,” I reminded her, sternly. We did not have Time to be Sidetracked by her Foolishness. This was no Metaphor; it was an urgent Mission. “Tell us, Gustav! Where must we go to obtain our Manifesto?”

“The Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan,” he said, and we heard Death in his Voice.

Our Arrival at the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan.

We had no Choice, so we Hurridly packed our Essential Equipment (such as Ropes, Pick-Axes, Bananas, Dynamite, several Lapsed Writers to serve in lieu of Canaries, and Extra Socks)  and boarded Lida’s Zeppelin. Finally that showy Monstrosity would be of some Use. As we floated toward our Destination, Gustav told us Gruesome Tales of the Mines so that we would be Fully Prepared for what we would Face.

O, my little Mocking-Birds! You know I am no Coward; my Work requires the closest Interaction with Beasts and other Horrors; yet Gustav’s tales Chilled me to the Bone. The Manifesto Mines, he said, were simply filled with Terrors such as Goblins, Unionized Miners, blind Cave Bats, Noxious Gasses, assorted Wraiths and Haunts, tentacled Nightmares, ancient Demon-possessed Artifacts, &.

“Just like Writing!” Lida said, though she should have been Focusing on Piloting the Zeppelin; I had no wish to die in a Firey Crash before we reached our hideous Destination.

I sighed, Patiently. “Our Courage and Skill shall make these Horrors mere Inconveniences,” I said, firmly, for I could show no Fear, lest my Doubts infect the Others. Confidence!

After Skillfully navigating through Ferocious Winds, a modest Hurricane, a pack of angry and shrill Ban-Sidhe, and even the wrathful Tentacles of a lonely Kraken once when Lida dozed and the Zeppelin fell too low toward the glowering Sea (O! that Child! I wish she would pay Attention instead of risking us All!), we arrived in Kazakhstan in the darkest hours of the Night, in a Thunder-Storm. Trembling, Weary, and Hungry, we disembarked, and Gasped: for we were surrounded by Angry and Rebellious local Miners with Rifles.

“Just like writing,” Lida muttered.

“Shut up,” I said, and pushed her toward the nearest Rifleman.

TO BE CONTINUED

Lida

Darlings! I’m back from Majorca. It was absolutely divine, and I’m now rested, restored, reinvigorated, and ready for a new challenge.

Oh, yes, Ethelie was still a bit frowny when I got back, but luckily I had a plate of Boggins’s Ma’s Biscuits to give her as a peace offering, and we have now resolved our differences. After all, we’re both deeply committed to the Directorate’s goal of helping writers write — does it matter if that lofty goal is achieved via punishment or via delicious, delicious pie?

No, it does not!

Our April Challenge:

How scrumptious is it that just when I was ready for a new challenge, just when Ethelie and I reunited in our desire to challenge you, that Script Frenzy came to our attention? Go on, click the link, I’ll wait, albeit impatiently.

Back? Marvelous! So now you know that Script Frenzy gives you 30 days (the entire month of April!) to write a script. 100 page of play, screenplay, or graphic novel. Why, that’s only a bit over three pages a day! Shall we? Shall we? Oh, please say yes! I’m giddy at the prospect, dancing about and clapping my hands like a schoolgirl!

Won’t you join us? I dare you!

But what will I write about?

Oh, bother. I have no idea. So I’ve decided to double my challenge, and write based upon your suggestions. Think you can stump me? Just try. I wrote an epic poem about President James Polk, after all!  Leave your dares in the comments!

And then start your own script, darlings. Let’s do it Tell me about your project!

O my little Goths and Visigoths!  I write to you tonight with words of Exhortation, Caution, and Lamentations. I shall speak to you with a Metaphor, for you are all writers of a Poetic Turn of Mind.

Writing a significant work of Fiction, I believe, is like summiting a mountain: a Queen of Mountains, like Everest. You climb, and climb, in bitter Snow, fighting your own Exhaustion, following your Sherpas, uncertain whether the Visions you see are real or Hallucinations caused by Oxygen-deprivation, and making critical Decisions when your Vital Forces are at their lowest ebb.

Fear not, I might say, were I a different Person; but instead, I say, Fear, yet climb.

I shall tell you Tales of three Agents and how they Face the Mountain.

Agent K and the Zombie Sherpas

Agent K, O Poor Agent K; I am not sure he even reached base camp. Instead, I am told, he whiled away his Hours drinking Yak-Urine Wine to dull his Senses, for the Fear overwhelmed him. He was set upon by Zombie Sherpas, who gnawed off his Limbs. Agent K is now nothing more than a Brain and a Type-Writer, floating dully in a Murky Vat of Brine.

Luckily for Agent K, steadfast senior Agents have retrieved most of his Limbs and Organs (at least, we are lead to Believe they are his), and stored them safely in an Ice House. Agent K may be reunited with his Limbs — but not until he has Written.

Be wiser than Agent K, my little Mallards! Write, despite your Fear!

Agent M Hesitated

Agent M learned from Agent K’s unfortunate Circumstances, yet hesitated at Base Camp. The mountain loomed over her, steep and Shrouded with Clouds. The wind howled Obscentities in her delicate Ear. The way was Uncertain, and she could not know whether she had Sufficient tanks of Oxygen, and Sufficient cannisters of Tang (or other Nourishment).  She could not Know if the Sherpas she hired were Trustworthy or Treacherous Reanimated Corpses who sought only to strand her in an Icy Crevice and devour her Limbs.

She will never Know; for a Blizzard destroyed Agent M’s tent, and she Froze to Death. An examination of her Camp and her Circumstances revealed that both her Supplies and her Sherpas were Satisfactory; if only she had not Hesitated!

Be wiser than Agent M, my little Cardinals! You will never Know if you are sufficiently Prepared. Climb, and find out! For if you Tarry, you will surely be Destroyed.

Agent L Reached the Summit

O Glorious Agent L! He reached the Summit, bravely Trudging past the well-nibbled Corpses of previous Mountaineers. He Basked in the splendor of the View from the Peak. Perhaps he even Danced, despite his Weariness, at the Top of the World.

Yet like many formerly-intrepid Mountaineers, Agent L was Overcome by Weariness and Overconfidence. Perhaps his Foot slipped as he Danced; perhaps he Tumbled into an Icy Ravine as he made his way Down the Mountain, mind filled with Visions of Warm Meadows and Butterflies and the occasional Unicorn. One thoughtless Error was all it took! (Or was he pushed by a Persistent Zombie Sherpa? No, no, I shall not cast further Aspersions on the noble Sherpas.)

Be wiser than Agent L! Caution, Courage, and Unrelenting Focus must be your Companions as you return to Camp.

Write!

Write your Words, Loyal Agents; they may fill you with fear and loathing; the way may be Hard and Cold;  but the Consequences of Failure are Worse than than even the Foulest Fiction that may spring from your type-writing Machine.

What will you Write?

What will you Write this week, Brave Agents? What Mountain will you Climb? How will you be Braver and Wiser than Agents K, L, and M? Tell us in the Comments!

O my little Ant-Eaters!

Ethelie

Today I read this Interview with Miss Elizabeth Gilbert, an Authoress. I was particularly Struck by this Passage wherein she paraphrases Mr. Werner Herzog: “It’s not the world’s fault that you want to be an artist… stop whining and get back to work.”

Upon reading those Words, I leaped from my Bed in the Infirmary. The Surgeons and their beastly Nurses cried for me to Return to their Tender Care, but I could Tarry no Longer. No matter the cost to Myself, no matter the Cost to my Health, it was Time for me to get back to Work.

For look what has Happened! Pie! Celebration! Shameful Harlots! A Horrifying attack upon my Person! Is there no End to Lida’s shenanigans? She has Shamed the entire Directorate with her Wanton Acts; and so I must, as Mr. Herzog said, stop Whining and get back to Work. Never again shall I turn to the sweet Comforts of Laudanum; never again shall I let Anything At All deter me from my Duties to the Directorate.

At least Lida is in Majorca, and I do not have to Suffer having her Zeppelin in my Parking-Space any longer.

This is your Mission today, my little Emperor Penguins, is simply this: read Miss Gilbert’s Essay, and then, get back to Work. Yes, yes, Miss Gilbert also offers words of Support and Encouragement and Self-Forgiveness, but I suppose no Authoress is perfect. Get back to Work! Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe!

Tell us in the Comments: What is your Work? What can you do for your Work this week? What keeps you from doing your Work?

O what a glorious, glorious day this is! After hours of feverish effort this afternoon, I’ve completed my epic poem about President James K. Polk! I’m weary and exhilarated and terribly, terribly proud. O, yes, it’s a first draft, and the metre sags in spots, and I might well have glossed over some of my research (or did President Polk really have a pet pterodactyl??), but I can fix all that later. For now, it is enough to rejoice  in completion!

My friends, I am not ashamed to tell you that I wept as I wrote the stanzas about President Polk’s death from cholera; and I know my readers will be equally moved when they read my verse.

Your exercise today is twofold:

1. Celebrate something! What have you achieved lately? Celebrate even the tiniest of successes. Celebrate! Tell us, in the comments, what you are celebrating, and how.

2. Carry this enthusiasm and joy into your work! Let your characters win a battle, for once. Let them find something in which they can rejoice. There’s always time for conflict: but no person’s tale should be only conflict and strife; let your characters enjoy a brief moment before you hurl them back into the maelstrom of your story.

Rejoice! Jubilantly!

And now, my lovelies, I have some some private celebrating to attend to!

Lida

Beautiful, beautiful writers! I’ve had the most astonishing week. Let me tell you all about it!

After spending several blissful hours with my Muse and my epic poem about President Polk, I decided to repeat Training Exercise #23 several times, for I am a firm believer in training exercises. I sought out the virile embrace of the Beastmaster, and did my best to improve my skills.

I felt as if I was making terrific progress! Everything was going swimmingly — when the door crashed open. It was Ethelie, and she was Very Unhappy. Oh, bother, just thinking about it makes me Capitalize as she does.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I began. Even though it was exactly what it looked like, that’s just the sort of thing one’s obligated to say under the circumstances. But she wasn’t concerned about that.

Ethelie Does Not Approve of my Methods

“Pie?” she said, and I trembled, for I have never heard a single word carry so much scorn and derision. “Pie?” she repeated. She loomed over me, stern and unforgiving. I tried to be brave, truly I did, but it was all I could do to keep myself from pulling the covers up over my head.

It was dreadful.

“Leave,” she said to the Beastmaster, and even he was not brave enough to defy her — in his own quarters!

She was dreadful, and now I was alone with her. I was trembling (and not in a delicious way!), and Ethelie did not disappoint. I will spare you, lovelies, and not share all her words with you. Suffice it to say that Ethelie was not pleased that I offered pie and encouragement last week, instead of threats and lamentations. She explained her point of view, vehemently, for almost forty-five minutes before she started to wind down. It was as if the steel rod up her, ah, spine turned to taffy and softened in the white-hot heat of her rage.

She summoned the last of her venom for her parting admonition. “You will never write like that again,” she said, glaring with her basilisk-eyes. Then she slammed the door behind her, and I was alone.

I wept, beauties, I do not mind telling you. For though she was no longer with me, her cruel words still echoed in my head, and it was almost as if she still loomed over me, saying all those horrid things!

I spent the rest of the weekend wandering forlornly about the Directorate headquarters, devastated. I would never be able to write anything ever again, I was sure, after being so forcefully silenced.  Oh, how I wept. I was inconsolable.

Or so I thought.

In Which I Am Consoled Despite Myself, and Find My Voice Again

Sunday night, I found myself wandering miserably about the conservatory, dreaming of happier days. I considered getting in my zeppelin and flying away from the Directorate; but I knew Ethelie’s words would stay with me, no matter how far and fast I flew! All I could do, it seemed, was mope about and feel dismal.

My morose musings were interrupted by Boggins, the janitor. We’d once been close, and I found our old closeness rekindling. I poured out my woes, and he listened patiently as he waxed and polished the floor.

“And so,” I concluded, weeping bitter tears, “that vicious old woman’s cruel words have silenced me! I can no longer write!”

Boggins looked up from his work, and shrugged. “Screw her,” he said.

My goodness. That was all it took: Boggins broke Ethelie’s devastating spell. I felt my perspective shift deliciously, and once again the world was fresh and new!

“Boggins!” I cried. “Thank you! thank you!” I kissed him, and ran off, for I had work to do.

A Visit to Ethelie

But before I could return to my poem about President Polk, I knew I had to take steps to protect myself from Ethelie. Oh, yes, in that instant I felt invincible, but what would happen the next time Ethelie chastized me? I knew I would curl up in a little ball and weep again. I am not yet strong enough to withstand her — but I will be.

So I did the only thing I could think of to buy myself more time: I crept into her room while she was at dinner, and left a freshly-opened bottle of laudanum on her nightstand! I knew she would not be able to resist its siren call — and I knew it would bring on a relapse of her “exhaustion.” It worked, and Ethelie is once again “resting” in the Infirmary, and I am free to write! Exquisite!

My angels, my beauties: I know you may judge me for my actions; but I did what I had to do to protect myself, and find my voice again. I could not let her silence me!

Tell me in the comments: who has silenced you? How did you overcome it? What can you do this week to find your voice again?

And pie! We shall have pie! I am so excited.