"You dead, pal?"
Nah, I'm perfectly fine. Stop killing me, baboon. Every time I pass out due to this never-ending workload and nightmarish deadlines, you start yelling that I died. It's normal for writers to stop breathing for a few hours — we're dead inside.
Did you forget how Joyce bit the newcomer and then came back to life? Seriously, why doesn't anyone understand that we are nocturnal zombies?
These eye bags, greasy, messy hair, and beggar-style clothes — they're our medals.
"Die to my hard effort..."
Uh uh, I mean, due to my hard effort, I finally achieved something none of my not-so-fellow coworkers have. My work finally got through the editor — in just 27 edits. But rather than rewarding me, they sent me here again: the Jolly Sunshine Workshop.
First of all, what a blindly radiating name for a workshop.
I know my works are all jolly, fluffy, and kind — but that's not because I enjoy it. It's cringey.
I wish I could write a gore-filled murder mystery.
Why am I such a positive, happy person?
Here comes the newcomer.
"Hello, Mr. Heading."
It's so tiring interacting with enthusiastic, energetic, full-of-life authors. They have a spark in their eyes, asking questions like curious toddlers.
Last time, this vivacious young lady asked me how many books I've published — and was so excited when she realized she knew one of them.
For goodness' sake, she's only heard about two of my works — and I have 96 unsuccessful ones.
To be honest, it's quite satisfying to break their dreams of a bright future. As soon as they write a decent fantasy, they start dreaming about it becoming a series or movie.
I've been working in this thorny field for the past 19 years, and I don't even know a single author whose work got adapted.
Honestly, breaking their daydreams is therapeutic.
We feel inner peace every time we make them realize they've entered the abyss.
"Mr. Heading?"
Not again.
"What, sir?"
Oh — sorry. My inner voice kind of spilled for a minute.
How may I help you, Miss…?
"Fiona."
Uh… yes, Fiona.
"Sir, I love your novel The Great Misfit of Love. Can you please sign this copy for me?"
Yes, here you go.
"And… sir, if you don't mind, can you take a selfie with me? My friends are gonna be so jealous!"
Yes, why not.
Click!
"Sir, smile!"
Heee...
"Thank you, sir. I'll see you in class."
Please, God, don't make me encounter more of these extroverts.
Let them be gloomy, shy, and extreme introverts.
Just give me peace this once. I won't ask for anything else.
Calm down. Calm down, myself.
Everything is going to be okay. Just think happy thoughts.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts — daydreams where I didn't need any editing.
Huff... huff.
Here we go again.
Hello, I am Almond Heading.
Yes, that's my real name — don't look at me with such pity.
My siblings were named Raisin and Cashew, so this is still fine.
Coming back to the topic — welcome to hell—
I mean, the Jolly Sunshine Workshop.
You will blast yourself—
Uh uh, I mean, you will have a blast.
Here, you will meet and be mentored by world-renowned authors: Richard Park, Green Heart, Nancy Days, Victoria Frank, and Kristine Yen.
Every day at 1 a.m., you will meet one of them for the course of seven days.
On the eighth day, you will meet a surprise guest.
"Excuse me, sir. My name is John Fays. I wanted to confirm the timing. I think you mistakenly said 'a.m.' rather than 'p.m.'"
No, it's a.m.
"But sir, staying awake at night is not good for health."
Zombie 23, drag him out.
Pull. Drag. Thump. Door closes.
If you care so much about health, go become a doctor.
You can't be a diurnal and an author at the same time.
Give up your soul — I mean sleep.
Take inspiration from bedbugs or maybe bats.
Bedbugs are so hardworking — they'll bite you till you see the light.
I once tried raising one.
Oh, my dear, lovely, beautiful Cerberus — why did you die after drinking my blood?
I've only drunk pesticides a few times by mistake!
How could you die so easily?
"Sir, I feel sad for your loss, but can you please get back to the topic?"
Zombie 23, drag him outside.
We don't need people who can't sympathize with those who grieve for the deaths of their pets.
Pull. Drag. Thump. Door closes.
Does anyone have any more questions?
"Not a question, but a suggestion…"
Zombie 23, fetch.
Pull. Drag. Thump. Door closes.
Now, where were we?
Oh yes, timing.
If you miss a class, you are not allowed to approach and pester the mentors with questions.
It's strictly for those who can respect their mentors and their personal space.
Including myself. As you must have heard, I am the most polite person here — I still can't be lenient with you if you disturb them.
Now, I will wrap up the introduction and let you settle down.
Walking towards the dorm.
Zombie 23, how many are remaining here?
"Ten, sir."
Geesh, why don't they break the rules or give me points for throwing them out?
We will need to level up our game, Zom 23.
I will destroy this camp so I never have to be part of it again.
"I am with you. I will make sure that it sees the downfall."
Next day...
What a lovely, gloomy day.
Let me just go out and overdose on caffeine.
Door opens.
Whisper whisper whisper.
Zom 23!!!!
Why are there so many people here today? I thought we chased most of them off.
"These are new people. They are your fans who came here after seeing your selfie with Ms. Fiona."
Why did it have to happen on such a lovely, gloomy day?
Why!!!!
"Sir, I'm sorry to hinder your misanthropy therapy time, but I have to tell you something important. Please don't panic and listen to me peacefully."
What? Why are you speaking like that? Are you planning to leave me?
"Uh, yes. Kind of. You see, I actually got a job where I can be a diurnal zombie and get paid slightly better than here."
You betrayer. How can you do this to me?
We've been together for so many years. I know everything about you.
*Whisper*
Are they together? I never heard about it.
*Whisper*
Maybe? They're always together.
How could you, Zom 23, how could you?
You should have at least recommended me there.
"Sorry, sir, but there was only one vacancy."
You liar. Cheater.
"Sir, calm down. Meet your new assistant — Mr. Hend
erson."
You... Henderson!
Oh, my head feels so heavy. I need to lie down.
Lying on the floor.
"You dead, pal?"