The Story

A student attempts to write a story.

I open my laptop and begin to type. Slowly at first, I just need to write down a few thoughts, deal with a few issues.

But first I need a character, someone through whom I can experience the world I create and understand the reality I build.

The sentences begin to come, and they form a character.

That’s me, player one, the protagonist. I begin to type life into him. I start with a description, to give me a physical body. I write hair on his head and clothes to hide his nakedness. I fill his pockets with items, useful things and worthless junk. There he is, a body without a soul.

I add a personality, some quirks, likes and dislikes. Next I add in a hobby, a career and some opinions. I give him politics, I give him religion. I confuse him, I write questions into his brain, he begins to search for me, his god. He wonders, as I wonder of a world outside his own. He wonders if he but a puppet, dancing on my strings or if he has a part of himself beyond my reach? He becomes a person.

There he is, a person frozen in a moment, without duration. He came from nowhere and can go nowhere. He simply is, existing but nothing more.

I begin to write in a background, a point of origin. I add a life before his creation, a history. I give him experiences, lessons learned, love had. I give him motives, reason and purpose. I stretch back the line of plot that I will soon write upon back to the date of his birth. I write in goals, something to strive towards, the end behavior of his function, where he will go as x approaches infinity.

I stop, he has been created, he now exists in a void of nothingness. I begin typing again.

I give him eyes with which to see the world as it unfolds, looking into the vast world I will create for him. I add a ground below his feet, so he has something to stand on and a sky above his head so he has something to reach for. I add a path, a line on which I will soon place a plot that he will come to understand. On this path I add terrain, formations and constructs. I add different areas and slowly the world is mapped out in my words.

He now exists, a person, in a world, alone. He is perfect. To this point, reality makes sense. One man, with one set of motives can be understood. Yet I am scared to continue, the moment I add a second character I will kill the first. His reality to this point has been defined by its exclusivity. To bring in a second character is to ruin this, to take what he has built and impose the will of another upon it.

I continue, still trying to get that which is in my head onto the page. I add a second character, the antagonist, the enemy. Again I give him a body, a soul, a situation. Now I have two enemies and yet it feels as though I have gotten nowhere. There are still so many more words to write.

I add a conflict, a disagreement that they cannot compromise on. I pit them against each other. Yet their struggles are futile, they do not act in their own interests, they solely exist so that I, the god of this universe, can impose my will upon them. I am the creator, my creations have no existence outside myself.

As I write, I do not cheer for the protagonist. Why would I? While he will inevitably win, for me it is an empty victory as both the protagonist and the antagonist are equal parts of my soul. The death of either one is the death of a part of me.

The futility of the struggle does not slow me. I continue, the story, the entire purpose of the characters’ existence continues.

I stop, a new e-mail in my inbox. It is important. I guess my new reality can wait.

But no, the story calls to me, a new plot development slips into my mind.

A plot twist, things are not to turn out as I once expected. I continue to write. I pour my very soul onto the page.  More characters, ideas, conflicts come fourth. My life comes onto the page.

The door opens. Whoever is coming in will see what I have done. They will know everything I have kept secret for so long. My reality will be ruined. I cannot hide it. It is better it be destroyed than discovered. I close the document. I don’t want to save my work.

I smile as I greet the guest.

It wasn’t that good of a story anyways.