Dear Manuscript: No, You Can't Drive

We started out on this journey together with a working understanding of each other's roles. Or so I thought.

I was the driver. You were the road. I was making the turns, reading the maps, deciding if west was better than east or if a pitstop couldn't wait until the next Burger King where I could get a large fry and an ice cold Dr. Pepper.

But you decided Dr. Pepper wasn't worth waiting for. You wanted to stop at McDonald's for a far inferior Coke from a watered down soda machine. So you took over. I don't know when, but somehow you managed to wiggle yourself down into the driver's side and plop me in the passenger's seat strap me into a carseat in the back like a wailing infant. Just who do you think you are?

We need to find a way to work together again. I understand that you've got your own ideas, and that most of them stem from nothing more than intuition, but sometimes we need to plan ahead. (I'm sorry, but Prince Tristian Elle cannot become king of Tranent. It doesn't make sense, no matter how much you want it to. I think. Actually, I don't know about that one yet. It might be kind of fun.)

But I digress.

Let's reevaluate, because my plans for this series are flying wildly off course and I think it's because I've given you the reins one too many times. You had a few good ideas, but it's over. This is a partnership, not a dictatorship. We're like the United States from a hundred years ago, not this tyrannical do-whatever-the-hell-it-wants governing body ruling over us now.

So calm down with your fly-by-the-pants ideas and let's work together on this. We're only at book three with six more to go. Capisce?

Your backseat writer,

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Dear Manuscript is an ongoing series by author C.W. Thomas discussing his frustration with those annoying voices in his head.

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