“If only I keep typing, all will be well. There will be no need to think, no need to feel, nothing will be real.” And so, she began.

*Tip tap tap tap *, her fingers sang along, calling up strange worlds and mythical maidens, giving opinions on dire issues, sharing favorite recipes from strange lands which stretched before her minds eye, hither and yon.

Worlds collided and got caught under her fingernails, which had grown slightly ragged from the abuse of speed, as their tips were delivered to the pounding ponderings of plastic key pads who thought they knew it all, but, like most who feel the same, were easily replaced.

Svelte Sirens slinked serpentiously in silks and sandals to destinations only the naughty know of.

Bad buggering badgeresque of men ,named Buddy and Bub ,bounced and bobbed under yellow sodium street lights, trying to put out the lights of others.

Once a true badger meandered past, taunting three squirrels, before disappearing under the sink of a lurking madman for a bite of cheesecake. He was drunk! So was the badger!

Oppressed opposums openly opined on what walrus refugees should except of pre-teen oysters. It was a dinner debate from which no one came away satisfied; but, at least the walruses, unlike the oysters, from it came away.

Turnips turned out together, to laud the vegetarians, sacrificing themselves for the good of man on delft altars.

As the stack of papers grew, something had to be done wiith them. Too good to throw away, too annoying to let lay, they were bundled into stacks of seeming order and shipped off to the publishing houses.

Then came the day when a check appeared in front of her eyes, along with a little sticky note fraught with information regarding a press conference looming. Such a conference it was to be, too; geared towards introducing to the world the mysterious author of the books that altered the world, the course of humanity, forever, and put them on the road to … the road to … well, she wasn’t sure what sort of road they’d gotten onto, since she really hadn’t been paying attention.

“I only wanted to be left alone.” she sighed. “I wanted not to think.” Still, no one would leave her alone now. Not, that is, until she agreed to go to the press conference. Once there, the first, second, third and all the way up to the very last question all involved words such as "Can you give us your opinion on … " and “What do you really think about…” and, of course, the dreaded “What was your inspiration for…” and “Where do you get your ideas?” and, most especially terrible “Whatever was your motivation …”.

“Why?” she cried out. “Why do you badger me with your questions?”

“Why?” they replied, in shock. “Don’t you understand. You finally explained it all so clearly. Thanks to you, everything is now real.”

“Well, that’s botched then!” she exclaimed. Upon arriving home she tossed out both computer and typewriter. Picking up a paint brush, she set out to counter her effect on the course of the world.