[ WP ] After a freak accident , the writer/narrator discovers he can talk directly to his characters .

I think it happened three weeks after the accident. Probably about three weeks. I had sat down at my desk, just like I did every day before it happened. And just like every day, I looked at the words on the screen and was miserable. 
 
 *It was a smaller city, a quieter city. But it too lay on a waterfront, was old and full of bustle. When she stepped out into the air, into the city center, she did half wonder if she had gone anywhere at all. * 
 
 The words continued on, but I could not bring myself to follow them. 
 
 “ Something has to happen here, ” I muttered. She gets to the new city, doesn ’ t know anybody, doesn ’ t have anything she *needs* to do. Infinite possibility. 
 
 “ So why is it so damn hard to make *anything* happen. ” 
 
 I didn ’ t have an answer. 
 
 The whole story existed in my mind, big moments and exciting scenes flashing about. *Just connect them* my brain would say, and I would tell it to shut up, because that ’ s easier said 
 than done. 
 
 But it should be doable. 
 
 I read and I imagined her. A little dazzled, a little frightened. But overwhelmed with this new sense that the world could be hers. For the very first time, a taste of freedom. Where would she go? What would she do? 
 
 I pictured her standing there, on the street corner, eyes on the map of the city and her eyes narrowed with concentration. She just needed the right place to be, and a reason to be there. And then the words would come. 
 
 “ You know, ” she said, and she looked direct at me, through the fourth wall of my imagination. “ I haven ’ t spoken to anyone for a while. ” 
 
 I laughed at that, at myself. “ Tropes on tropes, ” I said to myself, smiling. “ Let ’ s not go Deadpool up in here. ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, ” she said. “ No, Rob. Not you. This is all me. ” 
 
 I ’ ll admit to feeling a sort of… I guess anxiousness. Interiority is essential for writers, but I ’ d never carried on a conversation with myself through a character before, and I wondered at my own health. 
 
 “ Maybe I wasn ’ t ready to come home, ” I whispered to myself. 
 
 “ Maybe not, ” she said. “ But you ’ ve got that same old self-centeredness, so you seem pretty much yourself. ” 
 
 I frowned, and decided to engage. “ Alright, fine, ” I… thought? Said? More like both, really. “ Fine, ” I said. “ What ’ s this now? ” 
 
 She smiled at me, tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “ Well I ’ m fresh into this new city. I have – “ she looked around, played at conspiracy “ - my condition, and I ’ m looking for something new. ” 
 
 I nodded, looked back up the page. “ So far you ’ re reading from the same script, ” I said. 
 
 She rolled her eyes. “ Well so far you ’ ve got me dillydallying around waiting for… for what? ” 
 
 I shook my head. “ That ’ s the problem. I don ’ t really know what. ” 
 
 “ Romance? ” she asked. Hopefully? 
 
 “ Maybe, ” I said. “ It ’ s really about getting you from here and into the factory. ” 
 
 She looked puzzled at that. “ The factory? ” 
 
 I felt a bit of guilt, and I felt strange for having that guilt. But at this point I was far gone, had accepted her as real, and so I felt guilt. 
 
 “ It ’ s where you ’ ll find yourself. Not for a while, but soon enough. ” 
 
 She shook her head. “ I don ’ t want to go to a factory, ” she said. She looked distressed now. 
 
 “ I know, ” I said. “ I don ’ t want you to end up there either. ” And I didn ’ t. I don ’ t. 
 
 She looked at me. “ So why? ” she asked. 
 
 I shrugged, and I wondered if she could really see me, or if that part of this was one-way. “ That ’ s where you go. That ’ s where this story goes. ” 
 
 Something passed through her eyes, or at least I thought so. 
 
 “ And then where do we go? ” she asked. 
 
 I smiled. “ Wouldn ’ t you rather live it? You ’ ll have to wait and see. ” 
 
 She wrinkled her nose. “ Fine. Be like that. As long as it ’ s not the factory. ” 
 
 I crossed my heart. “ That ’ s not the last step. ” 
 
 “ So ANYWAY, ” she said, overly loud. 
 
 “ Yes? ” I asked. 
 
 “ So aside from you, oh tyrannical god-person, I have not spoken to anyone in a while. Whatever depressing stuff you have planned, you ’ re still going to need some white space in this manuscript. Publishers don ’ t want to read a shit ton of your oh-so-deep thoughts. ” 
 
 She had me there. 
 
 “ Alright, ” I said. “ Fair point. Who would you like to meet? ” 
 
 She got a mischievous smile. “ Let ’ s make him a man, ” she said. “ Artistic type. ” 
 
 “ How about a sculptor? ” I asked. 
 
 She shrugged. “ Doesn ’ t matter to me. Just as long as he ’ s artsy and a little pretentious. ” 
 
 I got a little sinking feeling in my stomach, which is ridiculous. “ What are you planning? ” I asked. 
 
 She laughed, a delighted and gently evil sound. “ You ’ ll have to wait and see. ” 
 
 I frowned, and looked back to the keyboard. I pecked at the keys. 
 
 *She looked away from the map and down the street. The sun was falling, and she had not eaten for a while. * 
 
 * “ Food, ” she said, in an idle tone. Food would help pass the time, help her to gather her thoughts. It was a shame to eat alone, but there was nothing to be done about that. *
