A girl with dark hair plopped down on her couch; turned on the TV to Once Upon a Time; and took a long swig of root beer.

With legs crossed and hunched shoulders she appeared to be intent on her work.

Tap T-Tap Tap

She glanced up at the tv and gasped. "I knew it was Emma!"

It was then a crisis hit. The writers of Once Upon a Time, Doctor Who, Sherlock, and countless others were so clever and filled with endless plot twists that left the watchers begging for more and frustrated beyond measure.

How could she possibly hope to do the same?

Four knocks resounded upon the door. "It's me."

Pushing her hair out of her face she opened the door. The remnants of plot bunnies, elated ideas and failed plots poured out. A hacking sound ensued from the person at the door.

It was BrightWatcher.

"Author! Authoress! You really need to clean this place up. I think I'm dying on the fumes of dead characters. What did you do to them?"

The Authoress plopped back down at her computer. "I think they died in some battle. Who knows."

"Why aren't you doing anything with the few starved characters that are still alive? If they aren't already so fed up with you that they've decided to quit existence."

"I don't feel like anything I write has any importance. There's no message, no point in any of it." The Authoress shoved her laptop aside and began to sulk and consider all things negative.

"You're moping again."

"But-" She sat up abruptly.

"No buts! Do you know what's out there?" BrightWatcher gestured wildly. "Do you?"

"An infinite chasm of despair and failed antagonists piled together with the story fragments that are shoved in a little black flash drive."

BrightWatcher rolled her eyes. "Space! The Final Frontier! There are treks awaiting you out there that involve dragons and heartless uncles; planets and worlds with silver trees and green fuzzy salami; heroes and heroines whose only dream is to live through the next hour; now tell me that's not exciting."

The Authoress slowly stood. She took a long look at her computer. "What's the point of it all?"

"The point is that you enjoy yourself while doing it. That it doesn't matter if things don't come out. As a wise writer once said 'If you write 10 books there is a greater chance you will Fail. If you write a 100 books, the odds are stacked more in your favor.' If that doesn't make you think, remember Samwise Gamgee! 'That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for!' There are so many fantastic stories and people created only by human's imagination and dreaming and simple force of will. Don't you want to be a part of that?"

Slowly, slowly The Authoress sat at her computer, crossed one leg and let the other stretch out in front of her, and began to type.

"Legolas never knew what hit him."

A smile illuminated her face.

Author's Note: *waves* This chapter, poor as it is, is dedicated to the wonderful Leonard Nimoy. The talented man who played one of sci fi's most iconic roles: Spock. Of the USS Enterprise, friend to James T. Kirk, and one of the most human characters ever contrived. Leonard Nimoy you will be missed. Thank you for your contribution to tv and the world of science fiction.

I do not own: Star Trek, Doctor Who, Once Upon a Time, Lord of the Rings, Sherlock, or the quotes specifically marked in apostrophes. :) Nor do I own any other works that are mentioned or appear in this fic.