The Mad Ramblings of a Congested Writer and Her Frustrated Muse

This is what goes on in my head as I try to focus on doing my "real" job. It's a wonder I stay employed.

MG: Okay, what *is* the problem with this new story? Is it about Miss Granger? Is it about me? Is it about my dead mother? Is it about some higher esoteric concept you can't quite put your finger on?

DB: Haven't gotten there, yet, babe. Don't push me when I'm creating.

MG: But you're not creating. You're editing. The same four pages. Over and over. And don't call me babe.

DB: Sorry. Yeah, I know I'm sorta stuck there, but those are four completely error-free pages, you have to admit. I worked *really* hard on those four pages. Why do you always have to pick on those four pages???

MG: (indulgently) There, there. I didn't mean to insult your pages.

DB: You're humoring me, aren't you?

MG: Yes. Am I doing it correctly?

DB: If you were doing it correctly, I wouldn't have seen you humoring me.

MG: Back to the story, shall we?

DB: (groans) The story.

MG: You have no idea what you're doing, do you?

DB: Not a freakin' clue, babe.

MG: You called me babe.

DB: Sorry.

MG: Maybe you're just burnt out. You pushed really hard on that last story.

DB: You mean, War and Peace? AKA, The Sordid Secret History of Minerva McGonagall?

MG: There's no need to be rude, young lady.

DB: Don't call me young lady. I'm old enough to write you back into your First Year at Hogwarts and Sort you into Slytherin.

MG: Touchy, aren't we?

DB: (sniffling and sneezing) I'm sick.

MG: I know. I read Chapter 3 of True Nature. Does your mother know you write these things?

DB: No, you bitch, I mean I'm sick. My nose is running and my head hurts.

MG: Oh, *that* kind of sick. Yes, you do seem a bit peaked. Why don't you relax and worry about the story when you're feeling better?

DB: Because I'm an obsessed fan. I hate not being on a story. And I can't get into this story I'm writing.

MG: Then write something else.

DB: (WHINING) BUT WHAAAATT????

MG: Oh, for goodness sake, pull yourself together, woman.

DB: Hey! Be nice to me. I get you laid on a fairly consistent basis.

MG: Yes, but you rarely let me enjoy it. How grateful should I be for that?

DB: (grudgingly giving her that one) Well, yeah, there is that. But you have lots of depth.

MG: I'd rather have the Big O more often...

DB: Minerva!

MG: You're the one typing, dear. I can't help what comes through your finger tips.

DB: Help me think of something to write.

MG: What about a nice Harry-Ron-and-Hermione in their 7^th year story? I'm sure that would be interesting.

DB: It's been done. To death, thank you.

MG: Then maybe a story about Snape and You-Know-Who? How and why he left the Death Eaters.

DB: Do you even *read* the stories on FA? Done to death again, Madame Full O'Ideas.

MG: I'm trying to help. I have real work to do in the back of the head, if you're going to be snippy.

DB: (mentally throwing herself dramatically into a chair) I'm devastated! I just finished a 100+ page story and now I'm drained, just drained.

MG: (leaning in) I'm sorry, dear. Could you turn up the volume on those violins, please? I can't hear them over the overt self-pity. (ignores glare from the author) Well, what interests you?

DB: You.

MG: (rolls eyes) Well, that's more than apparent, dear. You've turned me into Professor Mary Sue McGonagall.

DB: (insulted) I have not! How can you say that? You're not perfect in my stories. You're flawed. And vulnerable.

MG: Perfectly flawed. Dramatically vulnerable. (Yawns.) Just add water, stir, and I'll be next in line to command the *Enterprise.*

DB: You're a cold-hearted woman, aren't you?

MG: You're doing the typing, dear. Not me.

DB: I can prove you're not a Mary Sue, Professor Smarty-Tarty.

MG: How?

DB: Mary Sue's always personify the author. You are so nothing like me. You're quiet and stern, and I'm extroverted and loud. You're feared and respected, I'm liked and well, usually, laughed off when I try to be feared.

MG: I'm the person you sometimes wish you were.

DB: Nuh-UH!

MG: Oh, please. You would love to be like me--just the right witty thing to say at the right moment. Stern, but kind. Never awkward or clumsy or obnoxious. And, face it, you always stick things just under the surface of my personality that are just like you.

DB: That is not true.

MG: Oh, really, now. "Minerva reveals a secret talent for singing and dancing and is cast to lead the Hogwarts Follies"?

DB: I never actually wrote that!

MG: You were ready to cast me as Lola in Damn Yankees. Tell me that isn't Mary Sue.

DB: You'd make a terrible Lola. Now, when you were much younger, you might have pulled off a decent Nellie Forbush in South Pacific, or maybe Maria in The Sound of Music.

MG: The prosecution rests.

DB: You're not making this better. (thinking) Maybe I could write more about you and Billie?

MG: (laughs) HA! You want to discuss Mary Sue! The show-tune singing, drag-wearing, wise-crack-making ex-husband who just happens to use your favorite nicknames for people?

DB: Billie is NOT a Mary Sue. He's a guy. A boy person. I'm a girl person. Why would I have a boy person for a Mary Sue.

MG: Is he gay?

DB: Yes.

MG: Are you gay?

DB: Well, yeah, but I'm not like a boy gay, I'm like a GIRL gay.

MG: Does he think Minerva is the best thing since sliced bread?

DB: Yeah.

MG: Do you?

DB: (glaring at her) Not at this particular moment.

MG: It's okay that Billie is a Mary Sue. He's an amusing Mary Sue.

DB: I'm a hack. (glumly) Maybe I should just give up writing altogether.

MG: (holds hands over her ears) My goodness, those violins are deafening.

DB: I'm *not* feeling sorry for myself.

MG: Yes you are, dear, but it's okay.

DB: I could just go with the depression mode and start a story based on that Gerard Manley Hopkins poem.

MG: Over my dead body!

DB: (quoting)

NO worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.

Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

MG: Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I will not be party to your angst-ridden hurt-comfort therapy-session stories. Haven't I suffered enough?

DB: Hey, the Trek chicks have suffered much more.

Christine Chapel: (peeking her head in) It's true. She's killed me at least twice. Not to mention that hideous time she let Harry Mudd give me that invisibility potion on top of six Cardassian Suicides. At least she doesn't humiliate you.

Lwaxana Troi: Who forgot to invite me to the chick-fest? (to McGonagall) She had me having a nervous breakdown after Timicin died. (rolls eyes) She hasn't driven you mad yet. (pausing) Oh, wait. You were pretty crazy in that last story. (shrugs) Sorry. Do we have any h'ors d'oeuvres?

Eleanor: Oh, why are you two bitching? I'm an original character, and you don't even care what she's done to me. Brain tumors, cancer, cheating husbands, poverty, kidnapping, and then she had that alternate universe story where I became like this priestess chick--ooh, is that pate? I love pate.

DB: Hey, will you guys please give me some peace?

Lwaxana Troi: (to Chapel) What's her problem?

Chapel: (whispering) I think it's "that time of the month."

DB: Out. All of you. Now!

MG: (turning to leave) Thank gawd.

DB: (pointing at her) Freeze, witch. You're not off the hook. I still need something to write.

MG: Oh, for gods sake, just write something. I'm sick to death of hearing about it.

DB: Okay, then. How about a crossover? HP/Buffy/Angel/B5? Minerva meets Spike and Wesley on the astral plane and they go to B5 just in time to help John and Delenn defeat the Shadows. How would you think about a mad lustful tryst with Ambassador G'Kar? You don't have a thing against spots do you?

MG: Okay, now you're just being silly.

DB: You're right. You should definitely be paired with Susan Ivanova. G'Kar just isn't manly enough for you.

MG: You're going to get fired if you don't get back to work.

DB: Is that a hint?

MG: Big one.

DB: Say goodnight, Minerva.

MG: Goodnight, Minerva.