How Do You Do, Sire?

Have you ever wondered how writers come up with stories as if they have an ocean of thoughts? Or perhaps a universe of words beyond comprehension? Unending scenes and plots so captivating you just can't stop reading? If you're an aspiring writer, I bet you have.

As for me—I've been sitting here at my desk, staring at my laptop with a disheveled look. For days now, I've been thinking about writing a scene. I have this idea in mind, believing I can craft a binge-worthy event, just like every writer out there hopes to. I earned good grades in literature back in university. I've won every writing contest I signed up for since my junior years. My professors used to say that if some people have a green thumb, I must have golden hands and a mind to match.

So, this should be easy for me.

But no! It's not!

If you dared to peek into my draft folders, you'd find hundreds of abandoned "babies"—stories I stopped writing because the plot bored me, characters overlapped, or development felt nonexistent. Some were discarded simply because I ran out of ideas. Most, though, are nothing more than scribbled intros—mere whispers of a beginning. I tried salvaging what I could, hoping to recycle them into something decent, but to no avail.

Despite it all, quitting never crossed my mind. I dream of becoming a known writer someday. Not necessarily great, but at least good—good enough to be serialized, to have readers waiting for my next update. I mean, I'm already that now. But I wanted to be stable—established. And I hope the deities bless me with the clarity of thought and cure my chronic procrastination.

"Aish!"

Frustrated, I slammed my mouse, harshly shut my laptop, and stood up.

I'm hungry. And I smell funny.

But since I have no energy to even boil water for instant noodles, I settle for drinking tap water before dropping myself onto the sofa. I'll bathe later. For now, let's just sleep and drown my worries in dreams.

Living alone gives you a lot of freedom. No one watches over you, no one judges you for your habits. No nagging, no errands, no expectations. Yet, at times like this, I miss home. I miss my mom's cooking, her scent, and—ironically—her violence. If I were home, I would have already been kicked and spanked for not cleaning my room, the living room… well, basically the entire house. And for neglecting myself—my own body.

"Mom... I'm hungry," I whisper, my voice cracking as I close my eyes.

If you've ever felt so exhausted and hungry that your body refuses to move, where even lifting a spoon feels like an impossible task, and your eyes shut against your will despite your mind's protests—cheers to that! That's exactly what I'm experiencing right now. It's a battle between my mind and my body, a relentless push-and-pull game.

Oh, and to make matters worse, I have a peptic ulcer. I shouldn't be skipping meals, ever. But for the past few days, frustration has made me reckless.

Just as my eyes were finally drifting shut, my phone rang. Loud. Obnoxiously loud.

I groaned, blindly reaching out with one hand, feeling around the center coffee table. It took a frustratingly long time to find the damn thing. The persistent ringing was grating on my nerves, making me even more irritable. When I finally got a hold of it and peeked at the caller ID, my irritation spiked to a new level.

Demon.

That's what I had her saved as. My agent.

I could already hear her nagging in my head before I even answered. I still hadn't submitted my latest chapter. Yesterday had been the deadline, but I was out of it and completely missed it.

My mind flashed back to our last meeting a week ago.

"Alright, listen up," Demon—aka my agent—said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the café table. "Your updates have been inconsistent, your readers are getting impatient, and your stats are dropping. We need that next chapter ASAP."

I sighed, sipping my coffee. "I know, I know… I'm working on it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't 'I know' me. Where's the R-18 scene?"

I nearly choked. "The what?"

"The R-18 scene, genius. The one you promised in the next update. Your readers are waiting."

I groaned. "Yeah… about that. I can't write it. And I never promised one—you were the one who announced it."

Her expression turned deadly. "Excuse me?"

"I just—I don't feel like writing it." I fidgeted with my straw, avoiding her gaze. "I don't think it'll turn out great."

"You've researched it, haven't you?"

"I did! I read books, watched movies, Googled way too many questionable things—but I still don't know how to make it feel real. I have no experience, and it just… feels forced."

She rubbed her temples. "We talked about this. You hyped it up. The audience is waiting. You can't back out now."

Did she not hear a word I just said?

I clenched my jaw. "Well, I just did."

She shot me a sharp look. "You're a writer, aren't you? You create worlds, bring characters to life—how hard can one steamy scene be?"

That was it. The last straw.

I slammed my hands on the table. "I'm a virgin, you know!"

The café fell silent. A few heads turned, curious and amused. I ignored them.

My agent, however, just blinked at me, mouth slightly open. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I muttered.

She leaned back, arms crossed. "You? A twenty-something woman—who, mind you, is not only pretty but also has, let's be honest, a very nice body—has never had a boyfriend?"

I rolled my eyes. "You know that I'm socially awkward! I don't do relationships. I barely do friendships. Acquaintances? Sure. Colleagues I exchange pleasantries with? Fine. But that's it."

Now I was really getting worked up, which almost never happened.

"It's not like I don't like romance! I love romance! I read it all the time—even the R-18 stuff! But reading it and imagining it is one thing—writing it? That's completely different!"

I crossed my arms. "You think I haven't tried? I have! I've sat at my screen, fingers poised, ready to type something steamy, but the moment I start, it just—" I waved my hands around. "It just feels wrong! I can't connect to it! It's all just words—pretty, flowery, exaggerated words that don't feel real to me."

I leaned back, exasperated. "How am I supposed to write about toe-curling kisses and passionate nights when I haven't even been hugged properly?"

She groaned. "Unbelievable."

"I've never been touched! Not even kissed! Not even a peck on the cheek!"

Demon—no, this woman—had the audacity to smirk. "So?"

I gawked. "So?! How am I supposed to write something I have zero experience in? You expect me to magically conjure up the feelings of a passionate encounter when I don't even know what romantic hand-holding feels like?!"

She sighed, sipping her coffee with infuriating patience. "That's what imagination is for."

Oh, you write your self! I exclaimed deep inside but just held back.

I slapped the table. "Imagination has limits!"

She gave me a flat stare. "You write fantasy. Your current novel has dragons."

"Yeah, well, I feel more confident writing about fire-breathing lizards than describing a kiss I've never had!"

She exhaled through her nose, clearly debating whether to strangle me or give me a pep talk. "Look. Your readers want it. You built up to it. You just have to deliver."

I groaned, slumping in my chair. "I told you I tried. It's awkward, it's stiff, and I feel like I'm just guessing what happens instead of making it feel real. How many time do I repeat myself?"

She drummed her fingers against the table, eyeing me with mild exasperation. "So what? You're just never going to write a romance scene? Ever?"

"I didn't say that," I muttered, slumping back in my seat. I'm just not ready for an R-18 yet. Then, with a sigh, I shot her a look. "And, by the way, who decided to slap an R-18 tag on my novel? Huh? I was supposed to write a sweet, wholesome high school romance! Fluffy dates, innocent hand-holding, maybe a kiss under the cherry blossoms—that kind of story! Not…" I flailed my hands around. "Whatever this is supposed to be!"

She gave me a look that said she was already regretting signing me as a client.

Snapping back to the present, my phone was still vibrating in my hand, Demon undoubtedly preparing a rant if I dared to pick up.

Yeah, no.

Without hesitation, I turned the phone off completely and tossed it—not too harshly—onto the floor.

With a heavy sigh, I collapsed back onto the sofa, draping my arm over my eyes.

Hungry. Sleepy. Frustrated, now, even more annoyed. And still very much a virgin.

I'd deal with her later. Or never. Never sounded good.

With a heavy sigh, I sank deeper into the couch, exhaustion settling in like a weighted blanket. The hunger gnawed at my stomach, a dull, familiar ache I'd long since stopped caring about. If you've ever gone too long without eating, you'd know—that sharp, burning sensation of stomach acid churning against nothing. It used to be unbearable. Now, it was just another part of the routine.

My body was screaming for rest, for food, for basic self-care, but I was too drained to do anything about it. The frustration, the hunger, the sleep deprivation—all of it blurred into one overwhelming force dragging me under.

In the end, I simply gave in.

Letting out one last breath, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the only thing my body could manage right now.

Sleep.