That nagging demon of doubt is tugging at my pantleg again.
You can’t be a writer, look at you. You can’t even make yourself sit down and write every day.
I write. What do you think I’m doing right now?
You’re farting around. You’re writing a blog post about an imaginary demon that won’t let you write.
Well why don’t you go away, then?
Because this is my job, to try and make you believe you will never be able to do this for a living. I don’t necessarily like that it’s my job, but it’s my job nonetheless.
You should quit if you don’t like it.
I’ve thought about it, but with a little one at home and another on the way, the pay and benefits are really too much to pass up. I mean, I like you and all, but I have to think about the security of my family. Sorry.
Couldn’t you at least take a couple paid vacations when I really, really need to hunker down and write? Like when deadlines are looming or something?
Depends. What sort of compensation will you give me for not heckling you?
Your normal hourly rate, plus I’ll throw in a fruit of the month club.
Finally, there’s silence. Then,
Nope, you know what. I do enjoy this too much. I’m sorry, you’re going to just have to put up with me. Now, which fruit do I get first?