Overtired Writer

She folded her arms across the desk and lay her head on top of them, closing her eyes for rest as she let out another stifling yawn. The writer was overtired, again, but she couldn't go to sleep. She had to write. But to just rest her eyes for a few moments, that was all. She thought of the story she started exactly two years ago. She thought of it's sequel, what she was hard at work on now. She thought of the amazing climax she would write, and suddenly jerked herself upwards as a less than nice image popped into her head, of how her characters would suceed, or suffer, in that climax. The images were forever playing in her head like a movie, and she knew what her characters meant when they supposedly could not get rid of their horrifying flashbacks. She created them, of course she'd have them too.

She'd been listening to her first lecture today on creative non-fiction, and a non-fiction book had been published on the story of two men sitting on death row. It had killed the person as an author because to finish their book, they needed the execution to take place - to two of these characters... except that these characters were actually real. She'd hate that. At least her's was all make believe. She could convince herself no one was so harsh. But she knew there were those that were.

[240 words]