Book signing day. Arrived early. Table: ready. Pens: uncapped. Books: stacked.
Two hours later. Table: ready. Pens: still uncapped. Books: still stacked.
No people came.
Except the chair. The chair came. The chair stayed.
The chair saw everything.
I don't use that chair anymore. It knows too much.
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Audiobook narrator called. 'Character names?' Read them. 'How do you pronounce Kx'thaal'vorn?' 'However you want. He dies page 3.' 'He comes back page 400.' Didn't remember writing that. Checked manuscript. Didn't.
Publisher: "We need a blurb." Asked famous author. Response: "Didn't read it." Asked another. Response: "Started it." Asked third. Response: "Finished it. Thoughts: numerous. Printable: none." Back cover now reads: "A book. — Three Authors"
"Your murder mystery needs work." "What's wrong?" "The detective solved it on page 3." "He's competent." "That's not the genre." "So I should make him stupid?" "Make him thorough. 300 pages of thorough."
Editor notes: "Footnote 47 is too long." Checked footnote 47. It's three pages. With its own footnotes. One of them cites the main text. "It's becoming self-aware." "Already is. Footnote 47b asked for co-author credit."
Chapter 47. Protagonist enters the cave. Protagonist exits the cave. Walks to margin. Types in footnote: "I'm not going back in. You put something in there. I can tell. Write yourself a new protagonist. I quit. Page 3 guy seemed eager."
"When's the manuscript due?" "March." "Which March?" "The one after I finish." "That's not how calendars—" "Then why do they keep making more of them?"