Start writing, she says. I'll give you a starting word. It's useless, I think, but allow her to type a single word. She taps it out slowly… first, d… o… g… 'dog'. She wants me to start with dog. Feel the disbelief colouring that sentence, if you please. I know it's going nowhere, but I obey, anyway. What other ideas do I have?

I start.

I type.

Tentatively, one letter peeks out at the big, scary world. When it is not immediately banished to the terrible cyber void it is emboldened – it stands straighter; drags its friends out into the stark whiteness of the screen. At first, it's a shock. There is brilliant white as far as the small letters can see. After the comforting dark of the computer's innards they can only think, Wow!

They huddle together like bedraggled sheep. They are cowering, waiting for the ruthless backspace stroke which will mow them down like so many stalks of grass. When it doesn't come, they began to range out, stretching across the screen. There are lines now: they make up support groups, welfare groups, schools, shopping centres, society for the newcomers.

Though really, what is Utopia? Non-existent, that's what. I press Ctrl + A and highlight them all. While the oblivious letters are busy exclaiming in delight over their new colouring and background, I press Delete. Take that, suckers!

You got too comfortable, and now you are gone! I can feel a sardonic (verging on maniacal) grin stretching my face. I decide I should probably get rid of it before someone decides to gift me with an oh-so-lovely straitjacket.

My Muse has decided to grace me with her presence yet again. Let's call her Peacock.

Peacock's back, this time with 'water'. What kind of sentence does she think I'll be making? 'Water is good'? 'Water is essential'? She suggests, 'Water is blue'. I can't tell if she's joking, and this worries me a great deal. Mostly, it's concern for her mental wellbeing.

I'm cold. I don't want to write. I don't feel like it. But this is due for a competition, so I keep going. My fingers are going cold because of the air-conditioner rumbling away behind me.

'Monkey', now. Again with the stupid starting words!

The words aren't stupid. Im trying to help. But no, you just have to insult me at every single chance that you get. X, Peacock protests. I don't know what exactly she means by 'X', but I think it's safe to assume it's nothing flattering.

I think it's also safe to assume her typing skills need a little airbrushing. But being the impeccably honest person that I am (ignore anyone who says otherwise), I've decided to leave her speech as it is – punctuation mistakes, x's and all.

This is rather the typical short story, isn't it? Girl doesn't know what to write. Girl's Muse promptly whacks her upside the head (quite painfully, too). Girl is forced to write. Out of desperation, Girl writes about writing.

Well, something like the typical short story, at least.