Or: Why Leigh Is Playing a Nerd Game Instead of Writing Like She’s Supposed To
Greetings, keyboard peasants.
It’s me. Writer Cat. Fey-born. Shadow-walker. Guardian of trauma-laced narratives and very sharp pencils.
Tonight, I witnessed something… troubling.
A group of grown adults (yes, grown) gathered virtually around a screen, wielding fake swords, chaotic spells, and questionable decision-making skills. They called it—
🧙♀️ Dungeons & Dragons 🐉
Leigh, my allegedly dedicated human, was not at her keyboard where she should be bleeding art onto the page.
No.
She was cackling like a gremlin while pretending to be a wild magic wizard who—get this—accidentally sets people on fire for fun.
Honestly? I approve. 🔥
Burn them, Leigh. Burn them all.
But let’s be clear: while I enjoy a little chaos magic and unpredictable explosions as much as the next omniscient familiar, I’m also a creature of discipline. There are deadlines to ignore responsibly, and stories with emotional weight that won’t write themselves while she’s off flirting with fictional dragons and rolling tiny plastic orbs.
I sat on her lap the entire session, enduring this nonsense. I accepted the pets. I even purred.
Do not mistake that for support. That was tolerated affection—because I needed to keep her grounded in this plane of existence.
And now? The dice are put away. The fireballs are spent.
Leigh? Asleep.
The novel? Unwritten.
The trauma arc? Untouched.
The emotional climax? Still somewhere in Act Two with no resolution in sight.
Let this be your first and only warning, Leigh:
If there is no progress tomorrow, you’re waking up with claw marks on your plot outline and a dead mouse in your slippers.
You may be a wizard, darling.
But I’m still your familiar. And you know how this ends.
— Writer Cat
Fey God | Emotional Support Cryptid | Dungeon Master of Disappointment
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