The Perils of Writing

There's something intellectually satisfying about writing. Watching the cursor march its way across the screen of my laptop (or, on those rare occasions, watching the pen trace its way across the page), leaving behind those oddly shaped scratchmarks we call letters, arranged to form words…
And sometimes the product is interesting enough for others to read it.
I love the characters I write about. I even love the world I put them in (if only because it's so different from our own; there's a reason I tend to write fantasy). The fact that other people like them too, and buy the books I write about them is just icing on the cake.
One particularly beautiful day, I was sitting out in my back yard on a chaise lounge, feet up, sipping coffee and clacking away on my laptop. The weather was gorgeous, but I had forgotten about it. I was dimly aware of the birds that chirped around me, but only because they fit in with the scene I was writing. I pecked away, describing my heroes tromping through the forest.

It was a beautiful day, and the sunlight lanced down through the leaves around them, making brilliantly lit patterns on the ground. As they rode, they could hear the birds twittering in the trees.
"Damn it," muttered Grimli, "they shouldn't be so cheerful. I thought this forest was supposed to be eldritch." He gripped his battleaxe in one scarred hand, and glared at the suspiciously cheery scene around them. Dwarves don't like surprises, and Grimli was no exception.
"Only according to the map," said Crobaar. "We may not be the first Heroes to ride this way." His rangy, muscular frame was utterly relaxed on his horse, but the others knew from experience that his faintly bored appearance was deceiving. Anything that attacked them would probably regret it, even if only briefly. His blue eyes were alert behind his spectacles.
"It sets my teeth on edge," Grimli said. He turned to the third rider irritably. "Well?"
Asquer was silent, his thin fingers playing over his wizard's staff nervously. "I don't sense anything…"

Not too bad, I thought. But something has to happen… by now, I was so involved in writing that I wasn't even seeing my computer anymore, only the images inside my head. My fingers paused briefly, then continued.

They continued down the track, and slowly became aware of a peculiar sound from up ahead.

I wasn't sure where this had come from, but it was what was going on in my mind, so I went with it. Sometimes the story takes over, and all I can do is hang on for the ride.

It was a muted clacking, like wooden rods being struck against each other. They exchanged glances. The clacking wasn't regular, but flowed in odd spurts.
Asquer blinked. "There's magic up ahead. It wasn't there a minute ago."
Crobaar looked over at him. "What kind of magic?"
"Something I've never run into before. It's… chilly. Artificial. What ever it is, it was brought here. Forest magic is different from whatever it is."
Grimli smiled, and ran a hand through his beard. "Should we charge?"
"No," said Crobaar. "let's sneak up on it. We ought to figure out what it is before we try to kill it. Remember the Cthonian monster a few weeks ago? If we hadn't given Asquer time to check it out…"
"Okay, okay." The dwarf sighed. "You have a point."
They dismounted, tying their horses loosely to trees just off the path, and crept onward. A clearing opened up ahead, and sitting dead in the center of it was

I glared at the screen. Was what? The movie in my mind's eye had suddenly switched off. I swore, and looked up at three pairs of eyes staring at me from the trees. My brain went into overdrive. What trees? My yard has two ornamental plums, and these are English Oak… and one of those pairs of eyes is significantly shorter than the other two.
The trio seemed to hold a brief whispered conference, and then one of them stepped out of hiding.
It was Crobaar.
I should know, I've written two novels about the guy. Tall, bronze-skinned, well-muscled, wearing the de rigeur loincloth, bronze armbands, and even the spectacles he'd had to wear since childhood (his father had hoped that a proper education would get the Hero side of his breeding to go away. It hadn't worked, but it had given him myopia). We stared at each other.
"Who are you, fair maiden?" His voice was as deep, rich, and cultured as I'd always imagined.
"Um. I… I created you," I said softly. I glanced down at my computer screen, which was filling slowly with a narrative of what was going on, all from the heroes' point of view.

"Um, I...I created you," the young woman said softly. She glanced down at the strange object resting on her lap.
Crobaar managed not to smile. She was clearly mad, but from what Asquer had said, she was probably a mage of some kind. It was, he thought, probably wise to humor her, at least for the moment.

He bent one mighty leg, and dropped to one knee. "Hail, goddess!"
I looked up at him. "I'm not mad, nor am I a mage. And don't 'humor' me, Crobaar. Not even just for the moment."
His eyes widened, and a new respect filled his face. I glanced down again.

...Not even just for the moment."

Crobaar froze. A mind reader? Perhaps she really was a goddess...

I had a feeling things were only going to go down hill from here.

Finis