Iris was two Monster Energy cans and a cup of coffee into her all-nighter, forcing herself to stay awake so she could finish writing. The bags under her eyes were darker than the night sky, and her body was slouched in her office chair. Both the sounds of the keyboard keys clicking under her fingertips and the thought of finishing the book was going to make her go insane.

She didn’t know why, but she loathed what she was currently working on; it was the sequel to a thriller novel she wrote many months ago, one that did remotely well in the past. Iris remembers how much passion and enthusiasm she put into her previous works, how much money she saved to publish those books, but once she noticed she wasn’t getting as far as she hoped, the profession felt mentally draining. The author believed that her dream job might be a waste of time, hard-earned cash, and creativity.

Not only that, but Iris thought what she was currently working on had an uninteresting plot, bland dialogue, and an overall boring feel; it felt like this addition to an already-decent story was an insult to the original. Iris might be thinking like this because her relationship with writing novels was breaking, but even though she knew she could’ve done better than what she wrote, there was nothing she could do. The deadline is tomorrow.

And so, the author’s hands were groggily typing away on her keyboard, a yawn escaping from her mouth despite trying to focus. She would occasionally grumble an _“I hate this...” _under her breath whilst she worked, a tired, frustrated frown slowly growing onto her face.

But, a whole three and a half hours later, the book was completed, and she was able to rest and forget about her struggles for a while. Unhurriedly, Iris shut her laptop before plopping onto her bed, barely able to even stand upright. After a few minutes, she began to snore, her stressed body relaxing as she began to sleep.

Four months later, a month after the sequel was published, Iris was seated in a comforting cafe, frantically typing away on her keyboard. “Damn it..” she mumbled with irritation in her tone, “Can I even pay this?”

Suddenly, Iris feels two pecks on her shoulder, and as she turns around, she sees a woman in her mid twenties, politely smiling at her. But what the stranger was holding in her crossed arms made the author’s eyes widen…

“Excuse me, hi…” The woman began, shifting the book Iris wrote in her arms, “My name is Samantha. You’re Iris Meadows, right?” Samantha questioned and opened the novel to the ‘about the author’ section, pointing to Iris’s picture.

Trying to hide her surprise and remain professional, Iris nodded while she adverted her eyes from the novel. “Uh, yes. How can I help you?”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I love this book so far; I started reading it a week ago after I finished the first one.” Samantha complimented, her tone genuine.

Iris could only raise her eyebrows, desperately wanting to ask how she liked such a piece of shit novel, but she couldn’t. “Oh, thank you so much.”

“Of course!” Samantha chuckled with no hint of forcement in her voice. “Could I have an autograph, please?”

With a faint smile, Iris agreed and signed the pastedown of Samantha’s book with a random pen found in her overstuffed bag.

“Thank you! Keep writing!” Samantha said as her farewell before she walked off, leaving the writing by herself. For one, Iris thought it was weird that someone would even want to read her abomination of a sequel, much less enjoy it. Yet, it made her a little more hopeful at the thought of someone enjoying her writing and even asking for an autograph. Maybe she’s actually doing something right.

(This is very slightly based on a true story of my experience with my Etsy shop, in terms of how it could feel like such a waste of time for me when my shop is barely getting any sales, but the little bits of compliments I get could make me feel more hopeful. Also I came up w something more heartfelt because it’s Christmas at the time of writing this! :D)