My Take on Ghost Eric Cartman Prompt

 Write a scary story about the ghost of Eric Cartman, who died in a tragic incident at age 10, doomed to be bound in heavy chains for the awful deeds he did in life for all eternity, unable to rest in peace, haunting the streets of South Park, moaning eerily and scaring anyone who crosses his path. It was the first story I ever wrote, I thought, as I sat down in the office. Not a very scary one at all. In fact, the only thing that was scary about it, besides the fact that it made me want to write , was that the story had no plot. Just a story. A very, very long story that would take me a long time to complete. One that had a happy ending, of course, because it had the most important thing I had ever - the ghost of Eric, who died. And the ghost was the one that haunted me all my life. So, I wrote. As I said before, this was my first ever story . (The only story, really, in my entire life.)

I wrote a lot of this story in one day, which is a pretty good feat for a 10 year old. At first I didn't think I'd get to it until after the end, though. That's when I realized I needed more time. So, when the deadline was looming, my mother said I should write a sequel. (I had already started one.) I started the sequel, then, about a month later. When I finished it I knew it needed to end . I knew I couldn't keep going, that there was no way I'd be able to finish it in such a short time. So I put the finishing touches on it and sent it off to my publisher. Then, after a year, my agent called. My publisher had just called to ask if the story was finished and he wanted to know if I needed any help. So I told him, yes, there's no point in continuing it if it's not finished. He said it had to go, because it wasn't finished, not by me anyway, he said. That was when I decided that this would be my last story for awhile, at least for as long as I had it. And that's when it began to feel real. Like it might actually be finished. So I started to work on it again. Again...

I had been working on this one for about a month. By this time, I realized I couldn't finish it without help, even with my publisher's blessing. (I had a lot of help.)

I was also working with someone else who was helping me with some other things, too. Someone I'd met on the way to the jail. His name was Mike.