• The reader should be going from a state of ignorance to a state of awareness.

“I need a story with magic,” Author mused to himself. “Yet I can’t seem to find
where to begin. Of course, I could mimic the plotlines of the Great Writers of past
and present. There’s no harm in doing that. Still, my calling isn’t about stealing
ideas, it’s about creating my own world, my own adventures, my own experience,
my own story.”

Author sat contemplatively. He had been wrestling with the notion of writing for
many years, and until only recently he never really believed he could actually write
a novel. Something inside him had changed, something stirring and awakening,
clamoring in the back of his mind, desperate to emerge yet shapeless in form. This
thing, this ever-present entity was showing no signs of leaving on its own, returning
to the dark from whence it had emerged. This was a story, a story without
substance, shape, or form. While it could not be touched or seen or smelt, Author
knew it was there only by its effect. He had felt it awaken and begin to enter into his
conscious mind, turning his thoughts to character names and awakening him to a
sense of plot, evolution of character, and climactic scene. Story Author had dubbed
him, however unoriginal the name had been. Yes indeed, Story was the name of the
cold, shapeless entity that was squatting in Author’s mind.

“Story, who are you?” Author spoke, breathlessly. “And why have you come?” He
closed his eyes.

Darkness gathered before his covered eyes, dreamily beginning to take shape. This
darkness was not one of evil or foreboding, but one of uncertainty, like vague
uncertainty of a backyard stroll on a moonless night. There was darkness, but there
was familiarity as well. The whirling tufts of black smoke continued to gather before
him. Softly, soundlessly, the darkness was taking shape, if indeed one could call it
that. Story was not a shape that had line and depth and form, it was more of a
Thing of lacking; a bully pushing matter aside and leaving emptiness in its place; a
yawning darkness that described itself as something of a hole to Author’s vision. But
a hole is far too well-defined, far too-linear to describe the physical nature of Story.

Author was seated in his mind’s eye before the shapeless Shape. He was neither
afraid nor intimidated, but rather anxiously desiring to question this Thing. He
desired, above all, to meet the source of his torment. Author repeated his question,
more emphatically: “Who are you? Why do you torment me?”

A hissing pierced his mind, the sound of escaping air as if from a tire. Author did not
wince. The hissing ceased. Story began to speak, its voice laced with static and
distortion, as if different people were speaking each word: “I am here because you
called for me. Tell me what I shall be, that I may be born. ”

Author cocked his head and squinted his eyes at scream of static. If Chaos could
speak, this was its voice. Listening too deeply, and entirely new voices could be
heard within the Voice. Listening to the main message was like trying to see only
red in a painting of many colors.
Eyes still closed tightly, Author spoke: “Why do you answer my questions with
requests? I don’t know who you are or what you desire of me. Okay, fine, you ask
that I tell you what to be. So that you may be born is it? I don’t know what any of
that means, if you want to BE something, then be gone.”

The Shapeless remained unmoved, dark bands of void slowly rotating. “I cannot be
gone; I don’t exist. Tell me what I shall be, that I may be born. You are my father,
the father of my existence. I was created by a power within you, a power of which
you cannot comprehend. You may choose to ignore me, but I will be ever-present in
our mind.”

Author knew the answer before he had finished his question. Something within him
recognized this voice, it was becoming clear to him the meaning of these things. In
a different time and place, he had been given a gift. He had asked for this gift, not
understanding the consequences but trusting in the source. With it, he had
promised to do great things.

“I know what you would ask of me, Story, it is plain enough in the name I have
given you. But I don’t have one. No such stories to tell. I am not a writer. I have kept
years of journals, perhaps, but this is not like writing. There is no plot other than
that for which Life is the author. I am but a mere scribe of the day’s events, not
worthy to stand in the shadow of writers.”

A wash of white swirled through Story and was gone. “Your gift is not to be a scribe
of trivia. These things are for the time-keepers. You are a creator of worlds, of
lifetimes, of systems, of life. Command me, that I may be born.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I don’t have what it takes to be a writer” said Author, his fingers
pressing on each temple. “Pieces of stories, maybe, largely copied from other’s
work. That’s what I have, if you can call it anything. But plotlines, who knows
anything about how to create a plotline? What about creating a hero without
creating what’s been created? I fear being redundant and foolish. There’s nowhere
to begin, no journey from a single step because I can’t envision who is stepping the
step or from what doorway such a step is coming.”

“Courage” said Story, “you lack courage to tell your story.”

“Courage…yes, perhaps, courage and knowledge. I don’t even read enough to

understand what makes a good story.” Author began to feel very heavy in his heart
at his own failure; his own inability to shape the Shapeless. He had tried many times
before, to write that story within him, but each time had ended in colossal failure.
His words were never descriptive enough; he never used punctuation correctly and
most of metaphors were cliché. His ideas for stories, when they did come, had
either been done before or were nothing more than a mash-up of others’ stories
that had inspired him. Author thought of all those times he sat writing, the many
years of disappointment and stinging rejection. Now he was being called a coward
by a Thing without a shape, faceless and emotionless.

“How easy it is for you to float there and wait to be commanded. ‘Oh, hey, you’ve
got a gift for writing—even though your entire life has proven otherwise, and now
I’m here so let’s get too it.’” Alex got to his feet. “I am not a coward. I have tried,
and this isn’t my cup of tea. Oh look, should maybe write that down? ‘Not my cup of
tea’, oh, Author is so original!” Author sneered and shook his head. “Please. I even
think in cliché. Occupy my mind-whatever, I’m going now—out of this dream
sequence or whatever this is. Just please leave. Wipe my stupid ideas from your—
our—mind. I just want to be free.”

Author turned and began to look for a way out when suddenly an incredibly bright
light filled the room so as to occupy all space, pushing out any last molecule of air.
The bleaching pressure was intense upon Author’s body, collapsing upon him like
white water on stony ice, shifting his color, cracking and distorting him, the white
light filling the ruptures of his body. He watched himself begin to shatter with
strange calmness, suddenly aware that he was not breathing—nor was he seeing
with his own eyes. He had become encased in a crystal cocoon of sorts, and was
completely unable to move. Through the wrinkled glass he could not see clearly but
for the swirls of color all around him and the definite feel of falling. Not of rushing
air or pitted stomach, but of motion, and of life.

When his mind caught hold upon the word life, all at once everything stopped.
Bright, blindingly white light was all around him, its sources blurred by the crystal-
like structure in which he was encased. The light seemed to pulsate, but Author was
unable to move. As he stood there, suspended in crystal, waiting for some release
and explanation, Author began to think about his family, his beautiful wife, his
children, their life together—

Crack.

Author began to feel the crystal encasing begin to crack, and then all was silent
once more. Author thought this strange, as if he had done something. Again he
thought of his family, his beautiful Wife, Son and Daughter, how he loved them,
wanting so badly to wake from all of this and see them again, to forget his inability
to author a novel and to focus on the things that he knew he was good at, the
things that didn’t torment him and hate his life—

Craack.

“What, life?” said Author, aloud and defiantly. More cracking. “Is that what you
want? Life life life! Get a life! The Game of Life!” By now branch-sized pieces were
separating from all sides of the crystal. “My favorite cereal? Cinnamon Life! Life life
life life life life liiiiiiiiiiifffffffe” Author screamed. The crystal around him screamed
piercingly and shattered, vaporizing in all directions. He flailed his arms and legs
expecting to fall before he realized he was already standing on firm ground. If you
could call it ground, that is.