Tolstoy's Word Count Anxiety

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?"

Writer stares at blank page for six hours. Finally types one sentence. Bookshelf creaks. Hemingway's collected works fall. Spine lands open to: "Write drunk, edit sober." Writer looks at clock. 9 AM. Bookshelf creaks again. Fitzgerald falls open: "Don't listen to him."

Editor called. Urgent. "Chapter 8 has to go." "Why? What's wrong with it?" "Nothing." "Then why delete it?" "It's the only good chapter." "That's... a reason to KEEP it." "It's making the others look bad." Long pause. "We should discuss chapter 8's salary."

Writing workshop. Third revision. Instructor reads my chapter. "It's missing something." "Character depth?" "No." "Tension?" "No." "Symbolism?" "Add a dog." "Why?" "So you can kill it in chapter 12." "I don't want to kill a—" "Do you want to be published or not?"

Manuscript stolen from my apartment. Called police. Filed report. Two weeks later, detective showed up. "We recovered your property." "You found the thief?" "We found your manuscript." "Wonderful! Where was it?" "In evidence. We all read it." He placed it on the table. "We're returning it." "Any leads on the burglar?" "Ma'am, we found nothing of value at the crime scene."