>You are Anon
>You're not a city-slicker
>You used to be
>Then you built and moved into a cabin in the wilderness
>The only thing you brought with you was a USB keyboard
>And a pony
>A pony named Microsoft Word.
>Although she preferred to just be called "Word"
>You felt a bit like a gangstah whenever you addressed her
>Whatever
>Or would that be 'whateva'?
>You shrug and light up a candle, then lean back in a very basic chair
>You take a swig of your whiskey bottle
>Glenfidditch, to be precise
>You'd been inspired by writers of the past, both with the alcohol and becoming a hermit
>Although your writing tool was a more sophisticated tool for a more sophisticated age
>Yes, Word was your friend in word processing
>No distracting Facebook or Skype or harlem shake or whatever
>Childish as it sounds, people are kind of fucking stupid
>Your stockpile of tinned beans is magnitudes smarter than the hashtag yoloswaggots that pollute society
>They sprung into existence years ago, and just never went away
>Darwin must be rolling so hard in his grave you could connect him to a dynamo and power NYC
>Whatever
>Time to get some writing done

- You are Word pone -

>Anon calls you over!
>Finally!
>He hasn't been doing a lot of writing lately
>In fact, he's been really out of it for weeks
>Mostly, that's manifested as moping and grouchiness
>You've just given him space, for the most part, and done what he asked of you when he did ask something
>Well, okay, and a few extra pointers when it seemed like he needed it
>He wasn't happy, but...you can't stand..well, just standing by without doing something
>He didn't get abusive or directly aggressive, just more prone to drinking, slurring out half-hearted profanities and falling asleep
>Ah, but maybe it'll be better now
>After a bit, he puts down the beans, then finishes off the bottle
>"Alright. Gonna write now."
"Fucking finally"
>You mutter under your breath
>He looks up at you
>You just shrug
>He starts typing
"Anon, you spelled 'rainy' wrong. And 'stormy'"
>"Yeah yeah, I kn-"
>He's interrupted by a flash of light
>Suddenly, there is a winged paperclip floating in the air
>Clippy Mk. 12
>He comes along now and then
>You're not programmed with the exact knowledge, but you know that his appearances have to do with quantum mechanics and pocket dimensions or something
>>"You look like you're trying to write a dark, angsty and edgy novel! Would you like some help with that?"
>You recognize why people might find him to be a pain in the ass, but at least he cut through the bullshit and offered to help
>"No, goddamnit, now fuck off before I get a recycle bin pony."
>Clippy's eyes widen, and he pops back out of existence as quickly as he'd entered
>Okay, so Anon's in kind of a sour mood
>Duh
>As if that wasn't obvious
>You decide to keep quiet for a bit, though, see where it goes
>You let him make his grammatical errors too, without making note of them
>Although you secretly fix them as he goes on
>Either he doesn't notice, or he doesn't mind
>You're surprised that he's able to churn out a page or so, before getting stuck again
"Hey, you got down a page, that's pretty good. Kudos."
>He's busy opening a bottle of cheap Jim Beam
>"It's better than nothing, sure. But it's still disorganized, and I need a better grip of the overall plot, and who the characters are and why they are who they are. The actual, specific scenes are gonna be pretty easy, especially when I figure out each character's ''voice'' so to speak."
>You nod in agreement
"Just so long as you don't go all Valar Morghulis, either in-story or regarding your documents."
>You don't even veil the reprimanding tone of your voice