Plot

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a cute hiccup. A catastrophic, why-is-the-book-still-selling hiccup. You are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever rage-read on a bestseller list while whispering, “Who approved this?” Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? No. Werewolves? Unfortunately yes. Orcs? Don’t even speak their names. This book is worse than all of them stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be literature. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters pop in for dramatic gasps and then vanish like the author forgot they existed, and hair colors change so often you suspect the laws of physics are optional. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Even the furniture feels narratively important. And then there’s Plot. Plot is supposed to be the overarching story arc. The invisible guiding hand. The thing that makes events happen for a reason. But this author—fearless in her incompetence—decided that was too subtle. So she turned Plot into a character. A werewolf character. Because obviously. Now the plot has fur. And teeth. And emotional baggage. When tension rises, Plot literally howls at the moon. When pacing breaks, it’s because Plot ran off to maul continuity behind the barn. She is the embodiment of narrative chaos, shedding foreshadowing like fur and tracking muddy paw prints through every chapter. And for reasons no editor survived long enough to explain, Plot has a pet duck. The duck wears a tiny tiara. And glass slippers. No one acknowledges this. Not once. Make it make sense.