
Cigs and Strings.
A writer sits at a desk. His only air comes from a cigarette. His only companion is a life-sucking demon. His only critique is himself. How romantic indeed.
(or, Sleestack Writes Romance)
I promised myself I'd never write romance. I'm just not good at it. But that was before.
Now... I'm not sure. Something in the air... maybe it's love, maybe it's me selling out in an attempt to get views, or maybe it's the demon over my shoulder, but... I'm inspired.
To change the face of the romance genre, possibly forever.
(Multi-chapter, will update.)

6147 words: Estimated 31 minutes to read