Scribblitis

“I’ve got a pretty serious case.” Daniel said solemnly.

He was breaking the news to his best friend, Peter. They had been besties since forever and they spent all their time at the library, losing themselves into the works of glorious authors - Tolkien, King, Gaiman.

That’s where they were now, sat at a table in the corner. They had to keep their voices low.

“Are you gonna die then?” Peter asked, tearing his eyes away from the second to last chapter of Neverwhere. His heart wasn’t all in it - Daniel’s condition, that was. He was far more interested in getting to the end of the 464 page beauty.

“Yeah. I think.” Daniel whispered. He glanced at the librarian and was glad to see she was reshelving the crime section. She wouldn’t notice their chattering from there. “Carpal tunnel, vivid nightmares. The lot.”

Peter rolled his eyes but smirked. “So, what’s it called again?”

“Scribblitis.” Daniel flipped the pen in his hand. Unlike Peter, he wasn’t reading. Sure Daniel loved everything about books, but the difference was he found much more pleasure in writing books than reading them.

“So what, you’re gonna write yourself to death? Have so many book ideas you don’t eat or sleep and you wither away at a desk until you’re a pen-holding skeleton?”

Daniel laughed, a little too loud. It gained a stern look from a nearby library-goer. “Maybe. Nah, just like writing too much, I guess.”

Peter smiled, “You can say that again.”