I bet you’re wondering what it’s like when my writer isn’t writing. Sitting in a document is like sitting in an empty room. The only time the door opens is when someone adds words to the page. Then, suddenly, I’m not alone. There are people to talk to, interact with…well, sort of. It’s more like there are people to talk about. I can’t really say anything to them directly.
When my writer’s computer is turned on, there’s at least light in the empty room, and I can see, even if there’s nothing to see. When his computer is off, the room is dark. Have you every floated in a pool on your back? Ears just under the water so everything is just a murmur. You’re touching the water but at the same time, it sort of feels like you aren’t touching anything. That’s what it feels like to be me.
Until my writer writes. Then it feels like someone just cannon balled on top of me and I’m shocked awake.
I’ve never been in a pool, mind you. I don’t have a body, remember? But I can tell that’s what it would feel like. I just can.
Oh boy, here he comes! He looks different today. He’s got a weird gleam in his eye.
Well, that was interesting. I don’t really want to talk about it just yet. I think I’m upset, or maybe just in pain. I’m not sure. Just give me a minute, please?
* * *
Sorry about that. Yikes. I had a slight mental breakdown earlier. You see, my writer decided that he didn’t like me as I was and did some extensive editing. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But I’m not upset. It was a good thing actually.
My writer got fed up with me, as he should, because I’m kind of horrible, and decided that third person “just wasn’t cutting it.” After a couple meltdowns and a cup of tea being knocked over on the desk, he had an epiphany. And for once, it was a good one.
I have a body now.
So maybe my writer isn’t an idiot after all. I’m not going so far as to say he’s good. He’s definitely not good. He’s just not as awful as I thought. Apparently that weekend writing retreat worked some wonders.
Whoever told him to change from third to first person I’d love to shake your hand now, because I can!
Yup, I have a body. You are now looking at the main character of this rancid tale. Part of me hates myself, because when I was a floating omniscient knowledge-dispenser, I couldn’t stand this guy. He’s the fakest of them all, but now I’m him, or maybe he’s me. I’m not really sure, but I still feel like myself. I don’t always say what I want, but I can live with that. I have hands! And feet. And I can talk to Scarlet.
Oh, and did I mention she’s my love interest?
I don’t think I need to escape anymore. As long as Scarlet doesn’t get written out of this story, I think I’m content to stay right here.