Diary # 2

They, whoever they are decided to show me that I wasn’t alone, they decided, with the touch of a button on a remote control to show me who was next door to me. Upon pressing the button the wall began to slide up like something out of a fucking James Bond movie revealing some guy next door. He was sitting on the floor, leaning up against his bed staring at the ceiling, dribbling and smiling. He looked completely out of it. I asked who he was and was told he was like me – a writer. I asked what this was all about and they told me they needed me to finish my latest novel the way it was supposed to be finished.

You see I am, or maybe I was a successful pulp horror writer with four books behind me in a series dealing with a character who hunts monsters. Cool but not exactly high brow… who cares? I write what I like. But I decided to take book five in a different direction and my publishers didn’t like that they - - - shit. Fuck.

Anyway, apparently the reason this guy was looking out of his head is because they had done stuff to him, fed him a bunch of hallucinogenic drugs, that is apparently supposed to aid imagination and inspiration. They told me if I ever hit a wall, if I ever get writers block, if I ever stop writing, they will give the same treatment to help. Sounded more like a threat to me…