I’ll never finish this, though.
I don’t know if this is fiction or reality.
Right now I’m writing this on a seven year old smartphone. The battery is slowly expanding and pressing at its delicate glass screen, undoing it from the inside, but I refuse to let it go and get a new one.
I’ve been a writer ever since I was little, you know? Always making things up. Stories about adventure, stories where tragedies in the shows and games I liked didn’t happen because there was a character that didn’t exist there, a character that held my heart and my love so strongly it could alter the very story I loved in a paradox of loving something and wanting it changed.
I’m not a little kid any more, is the problem. I have adult problems now, like doubts, and how I’m going to make doing what I love a career. People tell me it’s unrealistic and I know in my heart they’re right, but if I admit that then I’ll lose momentum altogether, and my entire life won’t make sense.
So instead of asking for advice from real people, I asked for guidance from my own creations.
The first creation of mine was sent off to a story without logic, only emotions. She observed passively as there was no place for her to change fate. I asked her to be my eyes, so I could feel closer, and she succeeded.
The second creation was sent off to a story of magic and peril, growth and power. I asked her to show me what it was like to change the world, and she succeeded.
My third attempt was a bit different. Something hurt me, and so I asked for peace, and an unchanging world. She succeeded in a way that failed, because a story requires change.
The fourth time I ventured out, I broke my creation in my own hands, placing all my pressure and anger onto her until she snapped. I didn’t dare leave her shards on the ground. I stole her name.
By attempt five I knew the process well. I asked to understand the nature of my relationship to fiction. Her mission is not yet over.
The sixth attempt was my most recent. I gathered the shards of my fourth, and what I knew from my previous attempts, and tried to make something stronger this time. It stood. It was read. That’s what I was after, that time.
Try number seven was brave, and new, and bold. I did it for the feeling and to see if I could.
Number eight has done well, and strikes the balance of fantasy and my own thoughts. I’m proud of number eight.
The ninth try is still unknown. This story is not yet finished.
Because it’s not finished, I can’t make a closing remark or logical reason out of what I’ve just written or you’ve just read. I just hope it’s enough.