After a bout of writer’s block, an author of some renown has the spark return. Only, the events that the author begins penning begin to happen in real life. Horrified, the author tries to abandon the work. And yet, the tickle of imagination, the curiosity of what’s happening, and even the thrill of power keep calling the author back to the paper and ink… -- Deathshead419
Writers may not live and die by the words they write, but they certainly eat and pay the rent by the sales they get. Some have died because of the words they wrote, but the blame lies on an unhinged member of the audience more than the work of the author. It's when inspiration stops cold and the ideas no longer flow, that a creative soul might pay anything to have one more idea.
Ellias Tauryn had been doing very well in speculative fiction. Their fifteen-book series had made their name, their fortune, and their fame.
It also made the most-asked question: "What's your next book about?"
That was the problem with an adoring audience. They wanted more. Yes, they loved what you made, and would continue to talk about it, but they wanted to see what happened next. What was the new thing.
The other problem was that Ellias didn't have one.
Not a new series, a new novel, nor a new idea. Not even the vague concept of an idea. Not a glimpse of a mote of inspiration.
Their muse, in short, had bunked off to parts unknown and had not been seen since.
Ellias did all the things one should do to gain ideas. Long walks in the countryside. Absorbing new media. Looking through the social networks for anything that interested them. Wiki-walking from one strange historical fact to another.
No lightbulb moments. Not a single spark.
They even wandered around their town, looking for interesting places where ideas were wont to roost. Trying to find every niche, hole-in-the-wall shop where the people who ran it could take or leave customers.
In one such dusty store of Escher-esque architecture, the old man running the shop watched Ellias navigate the cramped aisles. "You don't find what you want, here," he called. "You get what you need."
"I need something to happen," grumbled Ellias, absently righting a dusty doll on a shelf. "I need a story to tell. Something visceral. Something real."
Always be careful what you ask for, and be specific with how you ask for it. Because what writers mean with certain phrases isn't how other people hear them.
"What you need," said the old man, "is the right tool for the write job." He rummaged under the counter. Drawers hissed and door hinges creaked, more than would seem possible for a dinky hunchbacked shop or any counter that may fit in one. "Yes. This. This is what you need."
It was a novelty pen, made to resemble a finger bone with unnerving anatomical accuracy. With an ink nib holding the place where a fingernail might rest. Laying in its box was a boringly dull bottle of India ink.
Ellias also purchased a notebook from a far more ordinary stationer's on the way home.
That evening, new pen in hand, he began to write. It was not fantasy, nor any kind of speculative fiction. It was a real-world drama. Set inside a nation much like his own. One about to come into the wrong side of a war.
They wrote all night, only succumbing to sleep just before dawn. The television was on, but only for the white noise.
Ellias thought he was dreaming when he heard the newsreader talking about the events he had just written. As consciousness crept up on him, that thought was proven false. It was real.
It was all real.
Co-incidence. Ellias got a meal into themself and with a fresh cup of coffee, sat to write more. They had to find out how the tale played out.
The instant they finished one page, the news began talking about those events. Okay, more than a co-incidence. Ellias' idea was on fire. They wrote as quickly as they could to get the story out of their head and onto the page.
...which again matched the news. Wait. The news matched it.
Ellias put the pen down, horrified. Could they really dictate real life like this? Ellias began a new page.
The president stepped up to the podium for the press conference, about to turn his entire party's policies upside-down, Ellias wrote. He was fully confident that if his party did not back him, that the people would cheer his momentous decision...
They fought to put it all in one page, but when it was done... Ellias watched agog as it all unfurled. They almost laughed themselves sick watching the toadies and lickspittles have a quiet fit in the background.
It was going to be fun watching them backpedal to the chorus of outraged people howling about the retraction.
Ellias contemplated the pen. It helped their ideas, but it wrote reality. On one hand, yes, they could fuck with the way the world worked. On the other... they could really fuck with the way the world worked.
...and the idea they started with was gnawing at them.
Did they really want to live in a world of their own making?
[Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash]
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