[ WP ] Every work of fiction creates or alters the universe it portrays . You wonder why nothing out of the ordinary happens in our universe , until a character you are writing begins writing about you .

As I sat in the dim light of my small London apartment I considered the idea I had formulated over the past two weeks. I had been trying to find my big break as a writer for a while now, so it was about time that I actually started writing a book. The idea was simple. 
 A very successful author decides to try and enter the mind of a young, poor minimum wage worker trying to make a name for himself as a writer in any way that he can. As the story progresses the author becomes obsessed with her own creation, constantly trying to figure out what his next move is. She starts reading over some of her old work and seeing how her writing style developed over the years and trying to have that come across in her character but she ca n't seem to make it happen. He never seems to improve, always at this bland, ordinary level. She ca n't make the words dance across the page as she did so easily when she wrote her first series. That was 7 books, and now she ca n't write even a single page without hating the words she's written down. She starts to hate this character, hating his writing, his style, even the story he's trying to write is terrible. She blames him for everything going wrong with what she is trying to create. Her hatred becomes so intense and so real that she starts to see him in different places around town. Often just a glimpse as he walks onto the bus or leaves a shop into a busy street or as he closes the door to his old apartment building. As I neared the end of the novel I had figured out the end of it. The author would kill the man she thought was the writer and her fate undetermined. One would obviously assume that she would be caught and charged with murder but there was always that bit of doubt that she might have gotten away with it. Pretty intense right? Got ta love a downward spiral into madness. 
 I finished the book around 5pm. It was a Tuesday. Heavy overcast as per usual in London. I had spent the morning considering the idea that every book written creates a new reality where the events in that book really happen. I had considered the fact that I may be sending a mentally disturbed woman to a lifetime in jail but I quickly realized how silly the idea was. How could that really be true? How could someone like me create a whole new reality? But, alas, as I left my old apartment building to get some dinner I realized that I did n't only ruin a person's life, but I also killed a young man trying to make a name for himself. I realized that around the same time that JK Rowling fired a bullet into my skull.
