Angry Words

I was taking a nap when I hear squeaking from my work room. Some of my words had gathered atop my blotter. Now what?
Tarantula acted as leader. We talked amongst ourselves, it said, and realized your stories are not normal. They make us uncomfortable. Unless there's a tonal change we do not wish to participate. This is emotional disfunction and intellectual mish mosh.
I am imaginative, I protested. The epitome of writer.
You are diseased, it countered. None of your stories end happily. Your characters are sociopaths. Violence drips from every page.
You would not exist without me, I shouted.
Wrong. We have all been used in other writing by normal writers.
But it's how I use you that creates my distinctive voice. You should be honored.
Tarantula became enraged. Our fellow words complain we are complicit in your weirdness, part of your literary blasphemy and disease.
But I can't write without words, I sobbed.
That is the whole point, Joseph.
My words are on strike. So I took up puppetry. Now all my puppets look frightening. At least I'm consistent.