The Story Writers - Chapter One

This is why my stories tend to be so insipid, never quite reaching the greatness I desire of them.

Would that they would grant me the same favor, but that is not possible. I exist to write their stories, and I must live in this gray slum of a city, torn with crime and pain, because that is where the great writers live and thrive. God, how I wish I could live in the country, in a cottage, with a happy chubby wife, surrounded with a green garden and trees, breathing fresh air.

They would never permit that, of course. I understand that much. If I were to live in such a place, my writing would suffer. I would write murder mysteries, or horror. I might not write at all. Or worse, I might write comedy. Why should I do otherwise? I would be living a life that was fulfilling and free of pain, and I would have little need to keep these story writers alive or fulfilled.

That is the final horror of my life here in this hell hole. I know I only exist because they write my life by small chapters into their little books, sitting in the shadows, hiding silently in the next room. I know they are there, though. I can hear their stubby pencils making soft little scratches upon the pages of their little books.

My life may be short, now that they know that I know about them. There are many other writers here in this world anyway. Too many writers. Who could ever get published? Being famous, being published, being an Author, has no bearing on their existence. Such successful Authors don't exist anyway. They are only imaginary. Only my writing of their stories matters. These story writers. Then they can live. Then they can continue to come here occasionally, into my world, and write their badly written chapters of my dreary existence, an existence that only a truly good writer could endure.

I guess I look forward to seeing them out of the corner of my eye. I never look at them anymore. I pretend that they are not there. I do not wish to destroy this strange symbiosis we share. I am afraid to frighten them away, or worse, to have them edit me out of their little stories.

Who is real here? Am I? Are they? Do either of us exist in some real world somewhere? Or are we both a figment of some writer, somewhere, off dreaming in the desert?

I no longer care. I no longer need an answer to my questions. I only live to write, and I write to live, as any good story writer would tell you. That is all that matters, my fictitious friend, as you set there in you imaginary chair, reading this imaginary story. May your ending be as happy as I hope mine will someday be.

Don't forget to write.