Tired as she was, Gwen was rather pleased with herself. After she claimed not to be a poet recently, a fellow (rather prominent) Protagonizer, Marc, verbally nudged her.
"I'm never very good with poetry," she'd mumbled.
"Well, you won't get any better if you keep avoiding it," he'd said, a slightly mischievous spark in his eye.
This comment stirred her inner imp. "Alright," she replied. "How 'bout this: from today onward, for the rest of April, I'll write at least one poem a day. But if I find you writhing on the floor from over-exposure to mediocre sappiness, don't say I didn't warn you." He smirked knowingly.
Less than a week had gone by since then, and Gwen had tacked up seven poems of varying length and style. She was breaking new ground for herself, venturing off into new rhyme schemes, a love-themed poem (something she thought she'd never write), even a Shakespearean sonnet in honor of a fellow Protagonizer, complete with iambic pentameter.
Gwen meandered down a different hallway as she headed back to her room from pinning up the latest poem, the sonnet. About halfway down the hall she heard a small noise. She stopped to retrace her steps back to an ajar door. Inside, she beheld a figure crouched over a writing desk, scribbling furiously. Through the dark, she vaguely recognised the silhouette of Marc.
"So you're not much of a poet, huh?" he asked ironically, laying down his pen, but not turning around.
She leaned against the doorjamb, biting her tongue. "I guess I hadn't really, really forced myself to do it before. And when I was forced to do it in the past, it never worked out, so I guess I figured it wouldn't work now."
Marc shook his head; something in his posture told Gwen he was smirking, not too unlike the way she would when proving a point.
"You know, an 'I-told-you-so' isn't quite necessary yet, nor is it advisable. I still have twelve days to screw up."
He kept shaking his head. Picking up his pen once more, he muttered, "Not at this rate you don't." Gwen shook her head, not hiding a smile, and turned to continue down the hall. She was, however, in earshot as Marc finished with delight, " 'I'm not much of a poet,' says she. 'Ha!' says I."