Writing Exercise 1

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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 crystallike 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.