I can’t get anything done with him hanging around. He’s hateful.
“No one’s going to read your garbage.”
“Hush. Writing is hard enough without comments from the peanut gallery.”
“You used an adverb.”
I keep typing.
“You know what an adverb is, right?”
I shut my laptop and start in on the dishes—writing a scene in my head while I scrub.
“Those –ly words. Literary fail.”
Great, I’m sniffling.
“Genre fic isn’t real writing.”
“You know what? I don’t need you in my life.”
It took half a bottle of Jäger, but I finally silenced my inner critic.