Diary, Monday: Today I went to this event titled "New York Times bestselling author teaches YOU how to write a New York Times bestselling book!" It was on an invitation left underneath my apartment door. But when I arrived at the address, all I saw was a room under a derelict warehouse, lit by a single utilitarian bulb. I saw two shining eyes within, and before I could turn to leave, a lithe form with scarlet hair charged out and scratched me! Hard! She mumbled "I'm free!" before vanishing down an alleyway. It still hurts. Owch!
Diary, Tuesday: I still don't know how to write a New York Times bestselling book, like New York Times bestselling authors do. I decided to start writing, by going to a cafe and looking at memes about how I'm not writing, but when I looked down in my coffee, it had a hairball in it! How strange.
Diary, Wednesday: Stayed in bed all day. When I awoke, there were these slashes in my sheets, and hair all over - cat hair. How odd. I don't have a kittypet. Pet. Today I purchased several t-shirts about how I'm happier when I have coffee and am writing, and then stared at the ceiling for five hours, and did not write any words, except in my mind.
Diary, Thursday: I dared to go outside today. I really wanted to run into the forest, perhaps to a grove of four trees, to hide in the darkness (which is conducive to writing bc you can't see your words, which helps haha), but I went to the corner store, where the clerk screamed at my face that I was an abomination unto God. Haha, what writer hasn't had that happen! On my way back, I encountered that strange woman from Monday. But her hair was no longer red and she seemed less...furry. She stared me in the eyes, "you have what you always wanted! What I thought I wanted! Enjoy the cat mines, Erin! Hahahaha!" Whatever could that be about? My name is...isn't Erin!
Diary, Friday: Today I needed inspiration for all the writing I wasn't going to do. So I descended into a great deep pit I found myself drawn to in the city; those crazy writer moods, am I right! Halfway down the steps, I bent over and started vomiting, but I wasn't vomiting up vomit. No, I was vomiting up myself. My pale, soft human skin sloughed off and rough feline skin replaced it, occasional pockets of scraggly fur bursting out from my new flesh. I hissed, and smelled, and could sense the whole dank dark world beneath me with just my nose. I looked at my old, human skin, and ate it, without any thought about eating it. Then I descended to the bottom of the stairs, where I met those who had been whispering to me, in my mind; the ones who are I, and I am of them. They were feline, too, and had red hair, and they came to me with a question on their lips: "Can you have the first book of a four-part story called Shadowstar's Betrayal done by Tuesday, Erin Hunter?" Yes, I said without speaking, my voice making growls and purs, I can, Erin Hunters. I can probably write a pitch for a series that's the same thing but polar bears by then too