Carrolling

'Twas brillig as Ecks awoke that morning, and he was pleased to see that the the toves, despite their nocturnal gyring, had stayed away from his petunias, although he was surprised - and more than a little concerned - to notice a gritty glow radiating from his desk. There sat his laptop, glaring belligerently at him.
"I thought I turned you off last night before I went to bed," Ecks said nervously.
"Never mind that. Come on, sit down," it said, the flickering screen staring blankly, mocking him, "Write something."
"Er, later," he replied, "I have to...uh..."
"Come on," it sneered, its keys rattling in their plastic housing, a dry, brittle cackle, "What are you scared of?"
Ecks sat down at his desk.
"Where should I begin?"

Yesterday Ecks hit 35,000 words in his second novel, the as-yet-unnamed love story between a young man and a girl who is suffering from severe depression set in a small village in 1950s Sicily. He just polished off the chapter in which the protagonist discovers a fossilised dinosaur (which occurs after the plague of rain but before he gets a job in the whorehouse).

The next batch of rejection letters for "The Servants of Gods" should be in the post right about now. Still, chin up, eh?