Mustn’t...

But I want to!

No.

Want!

What are you, a two-year-old?

Sorry, I’m just cranky because it’s hot, and because I’m sick of working on professional writing assignments. And I’d like to read that book, please.

Which book?

That one right there.

You mean The Stand? By Stephen King?

Yes.

Over a thousand pages long?

Yes. That one.

The expanded edition?

Yes.

It is, as I believe I just mentioned, over a thousand pages long. You don’t have time for it.

But I want to read it! Ever since the swine flu kerfluffle, I’ve been jonesing for apocalyptic fiction.

You’ve already read it, like two or three times or something.

Want to read it again.

You already know what happens! Everyone dies. The End.

Not quite everyone, that’s the point.

I’m telling you, you don’t have time for it.

Okay then, compromise: The Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis. It’s way shorter. Notice how it’s sitting there on the floor, within easy reach.

You’ve already read that one, too.

But it’s not as long! And it’s still apocalyptic! And I just luuuuurve that book!

I know you love Connie Willis, possibly more than life itself, but you have obligations.

Um. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies? It too is within easy reach. Might be apocalyptic...

You’re missing the point. You’re not allowed to read anything, not till you finish your chapter and your article and your indexes.

What are you, my mother?

No, I am your sense of responsibility, neglected and ignored though I may be. I know you and I don’t have a real strong relationship, but you don’t have a choice. You must listen to me. You must. You’ve finally got some free time to write. Don’t waste it.

Reading Connie Willis is never a waste.

No reading. I mean it.

...blogging? How about blogging.

You already blogged today! It was bizarre, like you were trying to do a spy thriller and a western and honestly it was kind of weird.

Yesterday.

Huh?

Technically it was yesterday I blogged, not today. It’s past midnight, see? It’s tomorrow!

Exactly. Time’s a wastin’.

You’re such a wet blanket. You’re the reason I never get out of the house.

No, the reason you never have any fun is because you read Shakespeare for pleasure. People think that’s weird. Seriously.

Speaking of which, there’s a graphic adaptation of Henry V sitting right there, just underneath Austen-n-Zombies.

Ugh, I hate those bastardized classics.

No, this is the original text! Unabridged!

Yet another book that you’ve already read, several times.

“And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here!”

That’s a good idea, gentlewoman. How about you get yourself to bed now, and so help me God if you don’t IMMEDIATELY resume work on your writing projects tomorrow morning, you will learn new and terrible meanings of accurs’d.

Compared to Henry’s St. Crispin’s Day speech, your motivational gambit is sorely lacking.

Right. Next time I threaten you with work I’ll be considerate enough to cast it in iambic pentameter.

Or a haiku! You could do a haiku.

With that thought in mind
This gentlewoman, accurs’d,
Makes her way abed.