A knock sounds at my door, which, as usual is closed, barricading me inside of my warm atelier.

"Yes?" Calls back the completely miserable heap of woefulness that is myself at the moment. I mean seriously, this is just plain idiotic. The first time I don't have homework in…Ever. Since about last, last, last, last…Wednesday, I think, and I have Writer's block.

I mean, really Muses? You can't hit me with divine inspiration when I need it? You have to make me wait for it? Is this another one of your blasted lessons in patience?! "Are you still in a sour mood?" Asks one of my first novelistic babies, Oshella. I'm not exactly sure where I got her name, but I think it sounds rather pretty.

"Go away," I groan in response, dropping my head upon my immaculately clean table where my computer (it's older than Yoda, I promise you) and keyboard lie, an empty and mockingly dull page of a Microsoft Word document just sitting there waiting for genius to be writ upon pages…

And I've got nothing.

"Should I call in Obi-wan?" asks my daughter. Technically, she doesn't exist. And she should have no idea about Star Wars whatsoever because she isn't…Well…Real, or anything like that.

But she is my daughter, metaphorically speaking, which means she has endured with admirable patience every nerd attack I have had whenever the word Star, Disney, Vader, or Skywalker comes up. I look up and fix her with a thoughtful look.

"What would you say if in my next novel I kill off Oliver?" I inquire. Oliver is her husband, I know, and another one of my story babies I am infinitely proud of. But in all perspective, my earlier works don't have my now refined angst in them as do my present ones, so maybe it's time he died. Time to kill the babies, yes…

"Who's dying?" Lo and behold, It's Anakin. Yep, I mean Skywalker. He never became the black suit guy in any of my stories, short or otherwise. I just couldn't make Obi-wan do it, I'm sorry. I glare at him. This is what happens when my door gets left open.

He comes in, and I have to remember what his eyes looked like all yellow and when he slowly turned in that flash view in Episode III where a tear ran down his cheek and his lips trembled and I just broke down right there. Can you tell I'm irritated?

"You can't kill Oliver!" Oshella protests, loyal thing that she is. "He's my husband! Besides, what about Rosen?" she demands, and I sigh. I forgot about her son. Last time I saw him he was fifteen and trying to find out who he was and what his powers meant for the world.

That took me a long time to write. I'm tired just thinking about it. "Rosen technically doesn't exist because he is in my still in my sixth grade composition book. I never transferred the last two books to the computer, just the first," I feel obliged to remind her since she'd gone all romanticism on me. "Why does someone always have to die in your stories?" Anakin asks curiously, crossing his arms as he tries for Obi-wan's stern and unyielding look.

All in all, it just makes him look stupid. "Particularly people I tend to care about?" He wonders. "Don't tempt me to kill you next," I warn, because I can, and I would, if I didn't know it would break Obi-wan's heart. For whatever reason, he likes this guy…

Stupid world. "And to answer your question…I don't know why everyone dies. It's just the biggest grief inspiring, character developing thing I can think of, especially for you Jedi. You know none of them really believe that 'there is no death, there is the force' nonsense, right?" with that, I turn in my gyrating blue chair back to my computer, and glare at the screen.

Maybe if I just stare at it, eventually something might happen… "Can you not kill my husband? Why don't you ever kill Leo?" Oshella interrupts us, blue eyes buzzing with fear and fury. I feign nonchalance. I don't like hurting my babies, really,what good creator does? I mean, you make them from nothing, put your own heart and soul into them, into creating them into something better... But sometimes a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

"I did kill Leo," I point out boredily. "He came back!" Oshella then retorts. I nod, smiling a little. Come to think of it; that was a very good moment in the story, I might try to take it up again, rewrite a few words, though… "Are you just going to stare at that screen all day?" Anakin once again intrudes.

His eyes haven't left me nor the screen since he arrived. Honestly, why do I live with my characters? Normal teenage writers live in 'a house', and have 'a life,' and like to think about 'dances' and things of that grand nature…Yet here I am with writers block trying to come up with the next scene for my latest book in my Jedi Legends series. I mean, I was on the best part, too!

"Yes. What are you doing here? Where're the twins?" I demand, swiveling around to note that his two children are nowhere to be found. Usually they either follow him or the dozens of other Jedi I have frolicking about in this comfortable place I call my imagination.

I live here most of the time. Oddly enough, my imagination dream house is modeled after a castle in France that I found in one of my textbooks. It has over five hundred rooms, conveniently cleaned by the inhabitants (by that I mean Dooku, who can't stand mess or imperfection in any of its forms) and eight libraries.

Ugh. But I'm babbling again. Anakin scowls. "With Padme…By the way, are you going to kill Padme anytime soon?" he inquires suspiciously. "And Nava and Obi-wan…When are those two getting married?" He demands.

I snort. "Do I look like Aristotle to you? Keep your mind in the here and now where it belongs. Besides, they're in love and have accepted it and embraced it, unlike what happened with Satine and Siri…. What does marriage matter?" I demand rationally. Anakin rolls his eyes at me.

"It makes it official," he informs me. "Well, I'm sorry if you have insecurity issues and thought she was going to ditch you so you had it put on paper as if she couldn't just burn it…Burn. Burn. Hmm," I tap my chin pensively.

"Burn. What's a synonym of burn?" I inquire curiously. Oshella flings her hands into the air with exasperation. "That's it! Obi-wan, she's killing people again!" Oshella shouts huffily as she parades from the room in a rare temper.

I give a little wave. "Don't be late for dinner, dear!" I reply distantly, still rifling through my handy dandy dictionary/thesaurus to see what the synonyms of burn are. I am a strong believer in having a wide vocabulary. "You upset her," Anakin scolds me, watching his theoretical sister worriedly. Or, maybe she's not related because Anakin technically doesn't belong to me, nor is my original character…

But still, I have put a lot of work into him and his adventures. "You have no right to speak, Anakin Skywalker…Do you know how many people, including me, are still upset with you for killing Windu, joining Palpatine and murdering the entire Order? You're lucky to be alive," I inform him matter of fact. He narrows his eyes at me as if he expects trickery…

Well, I guess he has a right to think me capable, but I don't try to trick people, it just happens and usually its funny. I convinced one of my friends the sky was scientifically proven to actually be purple one day, and I can thank Obi-wan for my skills of manipulation and reasoning in that field. Took the poor boy three days to figure out that I was lying. I really ought not to do that to people. It isn't nice, but it is rather funny.

"You're doing it again," Anakin decides, darkly. I shrug. "I've been called sadistic by some of my reviewers…I take it as a compliment," I agree simply. After all, focus determines reality.

From a certain point of view, being able to laugh at anything determines a sort of mental strength and will, doesn't it? And besides, a great comedian once said that if you can laugh at all of life's venues, then you'll never stop smiling.

Who said that? Where is my quotes book? Blast, I can't find anything when I have writer's block. It completely messes up my thought processes. "It's next to The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson," A new voice says calmly as he strides in. Obi-wan's eyes sharply take in the room as if he suspects Sith are hiding behind my bookshelves.

Well, sometimes at night I'll turn around and come face to face with Sidious grinning crazily at me. I tell ya, I almost stabbed that man one night because he did that to me. I tried to pull off a Makashi slice with a lightsaber, which wasn't there, ha ha, and ended up electrocuted. Note to self; carry steak knife in back pocket.

No one will mind if he ends up stabbed, I'm sure we all have imagined doing it to him after Episode III. And you can't just sneak up on a person without expecting that something bad is going to happen to you.

It's just the way things are. Finally, Obi-wan's eyes land on me after his analysis, and he sighs, but his eyes are compassionate as always.

"Writer's block?" You know, sometimes I have thought Obi-wan might have a little Writer's Intuition in him. He seems to know things quite cannily, sometimes its freaky, like he'll know when my sandwich has a fly accidentally trapped between the cheese and lettuce and he won't tell me about it until I've already eaten it, none the wiser. He's a barve that way.

"Yes. I was on the best part, Obi-wan. You and Ani just had your little moment…" I lament, throwing an arm over my eyes despairingly. "And I know what comes next. I have it all planned out, but the words don't sound right and they get mixed up and my fingers feel too heavy and suddenly I can't go on without not making any sense at all," I pop an eye open at him.

"What did you think about that scene?" I inquire, since it was mostly about him, as most of my major moments are. I love Obi-wan, simple as that. His patience and self-control, selflessness and courage appeal to me more than Anakin's bold ineloquence and reckless rebellion. Obi-wan crosses his arms, glaring slightly. "You break my heart," he points out mildly.

I nod, grinning. "Yeah, sorry, I have to break it at least two more times in this book…I promise it'll be better in the last book! There will always be peace in the end, gentlemen," I lecture, a bit more cheerily now. "That's what you said about Bruck," Anakin growls.

Obi-wan shivers. Bruck haunts him still. "Ah, yes, Bruck…I really hated to kill him, actually. I mean, he was well thought out in my opinion. Over time, he even became one of my favorites. Isn't he still running around somewhere? Or did I have to lock him in a room?" I wonder, with a bit of concern.

"He's in a room," Anakin reports, jerking his head in some random direction. I'll never be able to comprehend why he does that. "He kept trying to kill Obi-wan, remember? And then I got mad and Qui-gon got mad and we had a three person fist fight on our hands. You made me divorce my wife to get even with me," he reminds me; a bit bitterly for all that I've tried to make him a proper Jedi.

"No, I had to character develop in that book," I correct. "Are you ever going to stop developing us?" Obi-wan asks; some of the compassion waning to irritation. Don't you get snappy with me, Obi-wan Kenobi. I can write several embarrassing moments that will mortify you, and better yet, I can somehow make it so that Nava hears about what you and Siri did in that cave on Zasnabar. That's right, I know about that.

"We are all works in progress," I say, bringing up the last two short stories I wrote while my larger ones are in waiting for the muses to find me favorable again. It's because the library hasn't been open at school, I tell you, they deprive me of books and thus of ideas.

And if I ask my friends for ideas, they'll start to say "you should write a romance novel set in 1950's Germany," until I remind them that this Star Wars and they'll blink at me blankly before hesitantly asking if Star Wars is that movie with James Kirk in it….

You see what's wrong with this picture?

"So, have you posted the Strength of the Sacrificed yet? I have to admit, that was my favorite so far," Anakin changed the subject, obligingly. I smile at him. You know, for all that I couldn't stand Anakin after Episode III, I saw in the Clone Wars cartoons that he was awesome in his own way, someone I have come to admire because of his bravery and loyalty. He was a good person, a great man, worthy to be Obi-wan's equal…

And then Sidious came along.

George Lucas is amazing, he broke my heart but that is what good writers do, isn't it? We create. We create emotion, we create responses, we create stories and characters and worlds…And in our creation, we inspire people to become better or we relieve them of the stress of that bettering process through our ideas.

Force, I love being a writer. It's a rewarding feeling. "No, I haven't. I'm waiting until I can post the others, I get a computer from at least this century some time and goes at least a mile faster than Jar-Jar's brain, or until this stupid writers block wears off already. But what did you like most about it?" I wonder, eager for new opinions. Everything is a point of view, isn't it?

Anakin shrugged. "Besides the monkeys?" He asks. "That was weird," Obi-wan snorted, seeming to forget just what part he had had in the development of that wonderful day. "I liked how we were together, finally," he concludes. "I loved how we had fun…Right Obi-wan?" he asks for support.

"In the Strength of the Sacrificed?" Suddenly, Ahsoka breaks in, Leia settled comfortably on one hip and Intrepid and an alternate universe Intrepid that was named Terse by her side. I am eager to hear her opinion as well. "We were fighting for our lives every day!" She points out.

"And we had faith, right master?" Anakin continues, smartly ignoring his pessimistic apprentice. She doesn't get the whole picture yet, they never do. Though I can hardly blame her. I sort of gave Ahsoka a hard time in this recent one. Maybe I'll give her a pony or something in the last book.

Don't ask me what in the galaxy she's going to do with a pony. "You aren't the one who is still completely blind, Anakin, even after two and a half years," Obi-wan retorts. "And we had hope and kept our honor in the thick of it…"

"I thought we used sabotage a lot," Intrepid pointed out casually. "And we even helped some of the Sith," Anakin went on, ignoring this. "Tell that to them once they see what she did to Dooku and Starkiller. They'll never be the same again," Ahsoka laments, shaking her head woefully.

"True," I agree, at ease with my ways. "But it's all for the best. Everything will work out later…Sometime….Maybe….You know, I'm still working on it. Or, I would be if I didn't have Writer's block," I groan, turning back to my computer, but the screen is still blank, still mocking me, just waiting to be filled…

"Sorry son of a Sith spit spawn! Can't you just give me the means to finish this one chapter?" I beg the heavens. "Please? I'm going mad," I say. "You went mad at the age of five, dear," Nava says as she cheerily leads in the procession of Obi-wan's other girlfriends in my other stories, Olayra, Anova, Novara, and Emmadrie.

"Birth," I correct. "All great genius are naturally insane, my daughter" because after all, a great scientist/philosopher once said; "I'm so ahead of my time I don't even understand what I'm saying anymore." But, moving on…

"Why are you all in my room?" I demand, somewhat mildly. "Because dinner is ready and its getting cold," Padme adds as she and Lux and alternate universe Lux walk in without invitation. Great, I have three sets of crewmembers from about four different plotlines in one place. This is just magnificent.

"Well, get out! How do you expect me to perform my magic on an empty stomach and with Writer's Block! Besides, you all are making me nervous. Different plotlines, no longer in use, or unfinished handiworks all together…It doesn't work. Get out," I order. "There's no reason to be rude about it," sniffs my one and only Obi-wan. Strangely, I've kept four characters intact and un-multiplied since my first Star Wars story. Anakin, Obi-wan, Ahsoka and Padme. Everyone else has been duplicated or rewritten.

Hmmm. Interesting. "Honesty is a virtue, Master Jedi. Out now, out! And send in the cast for the Street Urchin War….I need to revise a scene," I command, though I've been done with that book f or about two years now. Writing is about constantly critiquing your work, over and over again.

"You aren't coming to dinner?" Lux inquires as they file out, grumbling "Not until my Writer's block wears off. If it takes another twenty years, then so be it. I will be patient and wait for genius. In the meantime, there are corrections to be made," I say with a wave of my hand.

My children know better than to argue. Mumbling and groaning, they file out and away to dinner, which does smell very nice, I wonder if Obi-wan cooked it…But no.

I will prevail over this dilemma. I am a writer, and there are things yet to be…. "Hey, angst queen, we're having cheesecake for desert!" Very well, that covers it. Sometimes a good man has to know when to admit he's down. Well, I'd down for now, but don't worry, for cheesecake cannot contain me forever.

I am, and always will be, a writer.

A slight teaser and a way to write without really having a point. I hate Writer's block.

~Queen Yoda