CHAPTER TEN
A Sequence of Dreams and Bored Authors
Reality consisted of orange smudges and slurred voices. All sense of direction thinned in the thick veil of painful sleep.
Em tried to blink, but she didn’t have any eyelids. Nor a body. She was just a soul hanging in the illumination of existence, watching actuality take form and live without her.
Is this a dream sequence?
Her voided consciousness hovered within a circle of unfocused beings, but she could at least tell they were humanoid. Em’s visual range reached a full 360 degrees around her; she didn’t need to turn to see any of the people. After all, a soul had no body to limit sight.
The beings chattered, barely audible, muffled like they were talking through pillows.
“Are you almost done with the book?” a voice asked
“Not quite. I’m about a third of the way there,” I said. My voice was cleanest to her, as if Em herself had been the one speaking.
“Let me know when you’re done,” the first voice said. “I know it’s been a while since you were able to complete a manuscript. Those writer’s blocks hit hard. So, I can’t wait to read it!”
“Funny how our main characters share names,” a third interjected.
Characters. Reading.
Holy shit! These were the Great Authors. If Em could, she would’ve shivered with glee. She’d always wanted to know what their lives were like beyond the world of Novella. After all, what Main Character didn’t want to understand the strange deity dictating their entire life?
A tinge of bitterness swelled in her spirit at the memory that I had been causing her nothing but hell the last few days. She imagined taking in a deep breath to cool her frustrations.
Maybe you can learn something from this vision—get a better understanding of why everything has been so damn cliché.
This could be what she needed to figure out how to turn the plotline around into becoming more original. Em tried not to become too hopeful; after all, dream sequences were also a stereotypical fantasy trope.
“Dream scenes are cliché,” another person spoke up—there were quite a lot of people in my group. Most focused their attention on thin, glowing objects in their hands or half-shredded notebooks. “But I guess that’s what you’re going for.”
“Well, yeah.” I let out a laugh, tucking a tangle of brown curls behind my ears.
Em realized how many facial expressions she used to make when her soul had been attached to a body. She felt the urge to scowl but couldn’t.
I bit my fingernails. A bad habit. “That’s why I’m adding this new section of the story in–I need to have something even weirder than before. I also need to establish her character development before Act 2 begins.”
“I like weird,” the voice who’d mentioned clichés a few seconds ago said.
“All authors are weird,” a man replied. “We debate about clowns and time travel as if it were normal.”
“Ha!” another said. “The world thinks we’re psychopaths when really, we’re the true geniuses. I’d rather be called crazy for loving what I write than famous for something boring.”
Em couldn’t agree more. Maybe being a Main Character wasn’t worth it if she wasn’t enjoying it. She’d tried her best to give up her plotline to Roden but had failed. The temptation to give up her career altogether gripped her from all sides again, sour and irritated at the Author she was spying on.
But—I had mentioned character development.
Is something crazy about to happen to me? Em wondered. Is my Author finally going to grant my prayers and change this story for the better?
I got up and bid farewell to my group of writing friends.
The scenery of the dream shifted in a blur, strange sounds and sights and noises that Em couldn’t quite make out.
As I wandered from some sort of cafe to some sort of other location, warm light filled their combined senses.
Because of our connection, she was dragged along with me.
A small, cluttered apartment, modern as one from the contemporary realm of Greentown, faded into view.
One too many aquariums crowded shelves between books, one too many easels of half-finished oil paintings crammed the space, and a pair of fluffy cats meowed impatiently at my ankles as I moved through my home.
It all was disappointingly ordinary. Not what Em had expected for a Great Author.
I went about my daily tasks—washing dishes in a sink, feeding my various fish, sweeping a bathroom floor—impatience to understand why she’d dreamed this scenario pricked at Em.
Write me, dammit. Fix my story. Why the hell are you procrastinating?
Finally, I settled on a worn gray sofa and pulled out a sleek laptop. I began to type. My fingers hammered along the keyboards with inspired intention and focus. The words that I wrote weren’t visible to Em in the dream, just mere blurs of bluish glow from the screen.
Even her Great Author was ordinary. Disappointment she’d become too familiar with sank in Em.
Is nothing in my life special as a Main Character?
I even took a snuggle break with one of my fat, fluffy cats.
Why am I here? Em fumed. How the hell does this help me with my story?
“I’m trying my best, you know,” I said. In a blink, my dark eyes locked with Em’s consciousness, narrowing.
“Can you hear me?” Em slurred, struggling to speak with a lack of lips or tongue.
“I know everything about you,” I said. “I made you.”
“Then why?” Em let out the dreaded question she’d been battling since the day Faylorn showed up on her doorstep.
“Because this is the book I want to write,” I said. “This is my story, and you’re my character. I’m burnt out from so many other novels, so I wanted to write something easy and simple. Is that so bad?”
Em’s consciousness began to fade, my voice thinning at the end of her tunneling vision. The distant warmth of her blood boiling with rage at my defense slowly pulled her awake.
“If you don’t like my story, write your own,” I told Em.
And she took it personally.