Mr. Write [COMPLETED]

Chapter 5 - "I'm not wallowing."

Morning light edged across Elliot's blanket, creeping up to her face, only to find she was already awake. She stared blankly at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest. The house was still. Minutes later her door squeaked open. Padded footsteps crossed the floor and a second later Elliot's bed dipped as Cece climbed onto it. She rested her head on the edge of Elliot's pillow, her eyes closed.

"I'm surprised you're awake," Elliot said.

"That's only because you are assuming I was asleep," Cece said.

"It's been three days since our last spotting of you. How many chapters did you write?"

A smile creased Cece's lips, wiping away the tired look.

"Five. I'm now a week ahead of schedule. My publicist can start regrowing some of that hair he tore out."

Elliot nodded.

"Tristan owes me $20."

"You know, I take offense that you two are betting on me," Cece said.

"Like you two aren't betting on how long it will be before I yell at Beck? Or like how we aren't betting how long it will be before Tristan makes a dancer cry?"

"I think I technically won that one, there was definitely some misting in Peter's eyes."

"I'll give it to you."

Thank you!" Cece shifted onto her back. "Now why are you wallowing?"

"I'm not wallowing."

"You're in bed, staring up at the ceiling with your arms crossed. You're wallowing."

"Okay, so maybe I'm wallowing a little bit."

"Ha!" Cece said, pointing to Elliot in triumph. "Now, tell me your woes dearest chum and I shall mock your blunders."

Elliot was silent, her forehead scrunched.

"Did I make a mistake?" Elliot asked, her voice small.

"Only if you choose it to be. How's it been the last few days?"

Elliot sat up, pushing aside her tangle of hair.

"That's the thing, I feel as if we have been getting no work done whatsoever."

Cece pushed herself up and nodded.

"Too busy making out?" she asked, in a serious tone.

"I'd rather walk into a brick building repeatedly than kiss Beck."

"Sure you would. Now what's been going on?"

"The last three days have been nothing, but me telling him about my idea and him stabbing it with a knife."

"Kitchen or Swiss army?"

Elliot ignored the question.

"He's constantly asking questions, about the character's past. Where did they grow up? Do they have siblings? What's their relationship with their siblings? How many years are they apart? What kind of cereal do they eat?"

"Wow, this guy means business. Breakfast cereal, he doesn't play around."

Elliot climbed out her bed and started pacing. Cece slumped over her knees, resting her chin in her hand.

"Part of me gets it," Elliot said. "Understand your character and what not, but I didn't have to go through this kind of interrogation for my last novels and they did fine."

"It makes sense," Cece said, playing with the blanket, "I'm not sure your publisher would have looked kindly on you having arguments with yourself, about a made up characters. Doesn't bode well for your state of mind."