Said the Character to the Author

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
An open letter from an unfinished character to it's author

Submitted: March 08, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 08, 2016



You don’t know me yet. I hope that when we meet I’ll be beautiful. Or loved. Or a racing car driver who doubles up as a secret agent and sleeps on a bed of money, champagne and women. The latter would be preferable. Although my face is yet to be shaped I can see you, slumped in front of a screen. You could do with a shave and those bags are getting bigger by the day. All the blank faced girls (or at least I assume that they’re girls – your call) say you look like the world’s weight is sucking the life from you, but I suppose you could always alter their harsher words. I’m not here to criticize, after all you’re the master of my destiny. Nice shirt, by the way.

Do you think they’ll like me? Pardon me for being churlish, but ignore your instincts to create me in your image. It looks tiring and I’m rather excited to stretch my legs. Make me save the world, get the girl and experience everything and anything. Those brown bottles I can see on your table look appealing, I’ll have a few of those too while you’re at it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to be chosen, just please don’t squander me. I’ve got an awful lot of potential if you put your mind to it.

No, no, no, delete those words. That’s not me at all. I’ve been patient, waited for you through the hangovers, regrets and mirror staring. It’s taken you a while to reach me, and you’re going to get me right. I’ve witnessed happiness and wonder plucked from nowhere and thrown into the world, my kind transformed into emblems of aspiration, and you want my lifespan to be spent as a low rent Chinaski? I can be anything.

I shouldn’t be like you, you see. You, confined by the possible. Do you realise you’ve been in that room for hours now? Do you have any idea how much you’re squandering your gift? Go outside, breathe some clean air, and create me. It’s lonely here now, they’ve all gone. The wizards and poets and princesses. They’ve entered your world, and here I am. Waiting for that hand to slide away from your temple and onto the keyboard. Stick the kettle on. I want to see the sights.

That’s more like it. She sounds pretty. Make them bigger, come on, help me out. Now we’re cooking with oil. The worlds a much brighter place when you evacuate your head, remember that. There’s sunshine outside, fresh bread being baked, sausage dogs bouncing down the road, pretty girls in summer dresses, laughing children. What’s it like to walk amongst it all, can you show me? The number of bottles behind you have doubled now. You should really eat something, you’re shrinking in front of my eyes. I need to feed off you. Create me, please, just remember I am not a mirror.

I dreamt last night of what I would be. You were there, clean shaven and fresh faced, 10 years younger than you are now. You were sat in a sterile white classroom, upright and awake. Ideas were spilling out of you onto a sheet, they were all more handsome, wittier versions of yourself, if you don’t mind me saying. And then, amongst the crowd I emerged. My hair was a long golden mane which bordered my chiselled statuesque jaw (thanks). Following a long day of slaying dragons and rescuing babies from burning houses I sunk into a pool of golden caramel, closing my eyes as scantily clad models fed me grapes filled with vodka and combed my locks (thanks again).

Then I woke up and saw you once more. You still need a shave, a shower wouldn’t go amiss either. A world weary, cynical writer, you really are a breath of fresh air aren’t you? Suppose I should resign to my canvas being splattered with tragedy. Oh well, there’s always the hopes for a sequel if you snap out of this. Just don’t kill me off before you do, talk yourself out of it. I suppose I was unreasonable to expect you to give me my deepest desires when you’re nowhere near your own. Fair enough. Tell you what, let me go halves on that latest batch of bottles and I’ll settle for whatever you want me to be. Deal?

© Copyright 2018 Bobby Owens. All rights reserved.

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