(This post is for Deb, who asked for an example of other-than-diary-form post writing.)
Near midnight at Casa PBW: The children, the dog, the cats, the hamster, the triops, the spiders in the garage that PBW is too soft-hearted to evict, and all other identified lifeforms inside the house are fast asleep. Even PBW's guy is snoring on the couch as the History Channel plays its latest program for Da Vinci Code week: Were the Templars Really Renegade Jews Stashing Priceless Treasure in the Holy Land?
PBW finishes the daily edit, makes backups and heads to the internet computer to post the midnight/next day blog entry -- and doesn't get there. Blocking her path are two angels: one sweet-looking, smiling bubbly blonde with immaculate white robes and a highly-polished halo, and one scowling thug with a dented, tarnished halo who slouches in faded jeans, a muscle tee and a leather jacket.
PBW's Good Angel: Good evening, boss. (straightens shining halo) I thought I'd drop in and remind you that it's time to post something about the new release so that all your loyal readers can rush out and buy it.
PBW's Bad Angel: (scratches under her right breast) Screw the new release and the blog. I'm hungry.
Good Angel: We can't do that. We're an author. We have responsibilities. We need to help our publisher promote--
Bad Angel: (slaps duct tape over Good Angel's mouth.) C'mon, P. Let's go raid the fridge.
Good Angel: (muffled) Oh, no, we can't do that. (rips off duct tape, shrieks, then tries to look righteous) Remember our diet.
Bad Angel: There are two pecan sticky buns on the top shelf. Big ones, too.
Good Angel: (sniffs) They're for the children.
Bad Angel: What about that extra package of Double-Stuff Oreos tucked in the back of the pantry?
Good Angel: Oreos are . . . (blinks) Double-Stuff?
Bad Angel: Yeah. Or the raspberry-cheese danish stashed in the bread box. No one has found those yet.
Good Angel: But the cholesterol . . . the calories . . . (sways)
Bad Angel: I won't count 'em if you don't, pudge.
Good Angel: Stop it. I mean it. Get thee behind me, Evil One.
Bad Angel: (looking behind Good Angel) Your backside is getting flat, you know. That's the first sign of too much dieting. Serious booty loss.
Good Angel: You just shut up. (To PBW) You must do some self-promotion this week, dear. Like it or not, you do have a new novel out. Your publisher has shipped an awful lot of copies to the stores. What if no one buys it?
Bad Angel: We can quit the biz and write Logan McRae fanfic?
Stuart MacBride's Bad Angel appears. He is John Rickards in dark, whelk-scented Armani.
MacBride's Bad Angel: Who's writing what then?
(PBW walks past all three into her office, slams the door, and locks it.)