"Of three things I am absolutely certain. Edward was is vampire. My name rhymes with "cat piss", truth or dare? Is this your card?"
If there is no dystopia, my character will have no personality.
The unbearable tragic truth crashes over me, like unbearable, cold, dark waves of a tragic shore that is so rocky, you can't walk barefoot on it.
Katniss will have to kill President Coin, with no sensible reason.
This will require a lot of editing. Good thing I have Stephenie Meyer on speed dial. Together we weave a transparent plot device, like the beautiful nymph handmaidens with Latin-esque names and delicate fair hands who weave the sparkly lunar mantle of the goddess Mary-Sue. It is magnificent, the way we tuck in useless metaphor like beautiful, benevolent parents tucking in beautiful, innocent children after they get back from their jobs as astronaut-teacher-ballet dancer-vampire-detectives in space.
Stephenie pushes a beautiful ringlet of mahogany hair from behind her ear.
"It'll do," my mentor soothes. "Just make sure to keep the ending ambiguous for the fangirls." My soul sister amends, "Not that either of us know what ambiguous means."
I re-read my draft. The strong, independent, yet tragically torn heroine who has to choose between her rugged childhood friend and her charming prince. Oh no.
"It's not my book anymore." I whisper, horrified at the beautiful evil of it all.
"No," agrees the mechanic of the exquisitely elaborately cruel plan. "But it'll take a lot of coffee to re-write a book this long."
Shaking with restrained tears, I call my editor. "Mockingjay is ready. I'll email it to you."