A gripping behind-the-scenes breakdown of a creative collapse involving snacks, sabotage, and one infuriatingly smug beast.

So.
I was halfway through plotting Book Three, really in the zone, eyes wild, mouth ajar, when he showed up.
Stubby.
Fictional, furry, uninvited. Smelling faintly of sausage and vengeance (that might have been my breakfast).

He sauntered into my imagination like he pays rent and proceeded to accuse me, loudly, of writing Rhydian Granger with too much… charm.

Now, look. I’m an author. I can handle constructive criticism – most of the time, ok when I have taken my vitamins and in my happy place.
But when a fictional dog starts questioning your narrative integrity because your side character has good cheekbones?

Well. Things get personal.

Here’s what happened.

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[Scene: Moira’s office(her very well-worn lazy boy), Tuesday, 2:43pm. A mug of forgotten green tea. A Google Doc open to Chapter Eight. A dog appears, judgment dripping from his floppy ears.]

MOIRA:
You’re standing on my keyboard.

STUBBY (glancing down):
Hmm. So I am. Oddly soft for something so structurally unstable.

MOIRA:
What do you want? I’m working.

STUBBY:
Are you? Or are you busy sculpting the literary equivalent of a caramel-flavoured distraction with tactical hair and suspiciously consistent moral growth?

MOIRA (sputtering):
Excuse me?

STUBBY:
Rhydian, Moira. I’m talking about Rhydian.

MOIRA:
You mean the emotionally repressed boy with a clipboard problem and 17 unresolved trust issues? That Rhydian?

STUBBY (flatly):
You made him broody and good at certain physical activities (no way I’m going to let a spoiler alert slip). That’s entrapment.
For her.
And worse…for me.

MOIRA:
He’s layered! He’s useful! He’s complex!

STUBBY:
He’s a biscuit-thieving distraction machine with regulation-perfect posture and a jawline that’s reducing snack frequency per chapter.

MOIRA (sets her keyboard aside, wildly gesturing):
HE IS THE BALANCE TO HER CHAOS!

STUBBY (sniffing):
He is a tall glass of trouble who smells like pine and misplaced responsibility.

MOIRA:
You’re jealous.

STUBBY:
No. I’m hungry.

Let me break it down for you:
In Book One, snacks were plentiful.
Chaos was controlled.
The girl remembered I exist.
Now? She’s busy blushing at Mr. Cheekbones every third page and I’ve been demoted to “comedic fluff.”

MOIRA:
You bit a councilman.

STUBBY (proudly):
And I’d do it again.

MOIRA:
So what, you want me to nerf him?

STUBBY:
No. I want him beige. I want him so dull he apologises to doorknobs.
Give him a limp. Or a fear of raisins.
Make him difficult to emotionally invest in, Moira.

MOIRA:
This is deeply unprofessional…and increasingly disturbing.

STUBBY:
So is forgetting my biscuit quota because someone’s hormones are tap-dancing through dialogue.

He sits. Calm. Smug. Like a soggy oracle delivering harsh truths.

STUBBY (softly):
Make. Him. Less…just less.
Or the next time Marlowe’s having an emotional breakthrough…
I barf in her shoe.

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[Scene ends with Moira whispering “Fine. Beige socks.” while Stubby dissolves into a fine mist, muttering about structural snack loss.]

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Author’s Note:
No actual characters were harmed in the making of this tantrum.
But someone’s getting a new subplot involving mildly traumatic yoghurt.

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