I tell the story and I tell the story

I say, sternly, furiously, in my big-booming, you-have-been-a-bad-kitty voice, "Get in the box!"

The story whinges and cringes. "NO! I don't WANNA get in the box!"

"This magazine will not even look at you if you are over 4,000 words. You do want them to look at you, don't you? GET IN THE BOX!"

"NO! I hate the box! I want to be 8000 words! I want to go to a different market!"

"You're crap at 8000 words and you know it. Now get in the goshdarn, Hemingway-humping BOX!"

"NO! NO! I HATE THE BOX! I HATE IT!"

I take a deep breath. I tell the story I shall count to ten. I cross my arms. I tap my foot. "I'm getting you in that box even if I have to chop out the land of the dead."

"YOU WOULDN'T DARE!

"I would."

"You know what would happen if you did that, and I fit in the box?"

"You'd fit in the box. I'd send you off."

"And I'd stink and you know it. You need the land of the dead."

I stomp my foot like an angry horse. "STOP TALKING BACK YOU ANNOYING PEST AND GET IN THAT BOX RIGHT NOW, MISTER!"

"NO! I don't WANNA get in that AWFUL BOX!"
...

...

...

check back later. This may go on like this all night.

until then, how about a good, old-fashioned mystery novel?