... you realize, with the fourth wall collapsed as it were, you can go after the one source of all yours and Becky's misery. Stepping outside the story, you tap on the glass of the monitor from the inside.
"Um, hello... mister writer? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" You scream, venting your frustrations through vocal expression.
"Uh... what?" The writer asks, confused. "I'm just writing your story."
"You are not doing that! You're turning the terrible horror of a girl losing her friend to werewolves into some... perverted lesbian porno! What about the pathos? The fear? The intensity? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Uhhh... that's... what I wanted to write, and... uh..." Beads of sweat roll down the writer's forehead, and you smirk with satisfaction, knowing that you're getting to him.
"Get your hand outta your pants, perv. We're gonna do this story right. Now, let's get things straight. Werewolves. That's horror. There has to be geniuine emotion here, fear, tension, panic. No porn. Got it?"
"Uhhh... you know what? I'm outta here. I'm off to a section where the characters won't belittle me for being a pervert. You can write your own damn story for all I care." And with that, the writer clicks to a different window, leaving you alone.
"Well that didn't go as planned," you sigh in exasperation. "Oh well, I guess the storytelling is up to me now..."