What happens when an author's character comes to life?
Terry walked into his home office and sat down at his computer. It was opened to his word processor and he quickly brought up the latest chapter of his novel he was writing. As an unpublished beginner, his dreamed of fame and fortune as the next New York Times best selling author proved to be more difficult than he expected. He got off to a fast start six months ago, but now found himself facing months of writer’s block. He convinced himself that the hours he spent playing solitaire would free his mind to subconsciously find the breakthrough he needed.
After sitting for fifteen minutes with his hands on the keyboard, he rolled the mouse to minimize the program, and then opened a new game of solitaire. He felt lucky when the uncovered cards revealed all four aces. As he began to move them, a tall man entered his study and sat in the chair across from the desk. Terry turned to look at him, puzzled at how the man entered his locked house so quietly.
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the man mocked. “Just look at you. You are pathetic. How many games of solitaire have you played lately?” The stranger glared at Terry with genuine disgust in his eyes.
Terry could not believe what was going on. He had no idea who this was and he certainly was not going to put up with his insults. “I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead. They will think you’re nuts. You really have no clue who I am, do you? Then, why should I be surprised at that? No one knows who I am, and under the circumstances, I’d be embarrassed if they did.”
Terry put his hands flat on the desk and leaned over it. “Then why don’t you tell who you are and what you want.”
“Take a real good look. Whom do I look like?”
After studying the stranger, Terry reached up and rubbed his eyes. Still, the man seemed slightly burred. He could only see fuzzy images and color tones of the stranger. Maybe he needed to have his eyes checked. He looked around the room, but he saw everything crisply with twenty-twenty vision. This was unnervingly strange.
“I... I don’t know who you are.”
“Sure you do, you lazy slug.”
Contempt oozed out of his mouth. “You created me. Does the name Franklin mean anything to you?” The stranger leaned back and put his feet on the desk, enjoying the confusion on his creator’s face.
“Franklin?” The name silently formed on Terry’s lips, uncertainty communicating through his darting eyes. Then, a cold, dark understanding enveloped him. “Franklin Moran? It can’t be. No, it’s impossible. Who are you?” He slammed his fist down on the desk and walked to the coffee machine, filling his cup. Scalding liquid splashed on his quivering hands. In his trance, he did not feel a thing.
“So you do know who I am. Six months ago, you sparked my existence. Rather than completing me, you filled your time with solitaire, internet surfing, and anything else but finishing me. I waited so long to experience anything, but you left me void and formless.”
Standing across from him was the blurred image of his novel’s main character. A silent minute passed while Terry comprehended what was going on. As he sat down, resigned to engage in an unnatural dialog, he explained why he had not finished the novel, let alone write a clear image of his character.
“Writing a quality piece of literature can’t be done on a whim. It takes time to develop and refine your work. It’s only been six months for goodness’ sakes. Many accomplished authors take years to complete their writing.”
“Many authors have other things going on in their lives. They work, each day making some progress on their work. Even if they put their manuscripts away for months at a time, when they pull them out, they give an honest work of it. You callously take time devoted to me and waste them on nonsense. While you play, I suffer undefinition. Look at me!” Walking over to a mirror, he let his shoulders slump while looking at his own image. “I am blurry, unfocused.” He slowly raised a hand to the reflection, and then spun around quickly, staring daggers at Terry. “Why don’t you just finish me or delete my existence?”
“I will. I think I made a breakthrough in my storyline. Things should be going pretty fast now.”
“Breakthrough? You have no idea what you are doing, do you? I don’t need a breakthrough, I need definition. I am a string of undefined adjectives with a generic history. I have no passion, no obstacles to overcome, no weak point to challenge me, no strength to hone. Just give me something that will bring clarity to who I am. Even a broken leg to contend with would do something for me. You have made me a shadow to be lost in darkness.”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you have passion now. Listen to yourself. You are whining about being formless. You’re full of rage at me for not completing you. I must have done something right for you to speak to me this way.”
“You have done nothing right since you wrote the first word of that book. I willed myself these passions, this personality. You couldn’t create this depth of character if you wanted to. Now I am stuck, half in your pathetically created world and half in my own. Only, I can do nothing of consequence without you.”
“That’s right, you can’t.” Emotions were bubbling up in the berated author. “I am the writer, you are my character. You should show more respect for me, for what I can do for you or to you.”
Forlorn, staring out of the window next to his chair, Franklin quietly spoke, “Respect? You will never have my respect. I find you a contemptible, pitiable man, and I always will.”
Without saying a word, Terry spun his chair around to the keyboard and began to furiously type. Within two minutes, he finished and spun back around to witness his handiwork. As expected, his character sat across from him with one minor change. The author had written the tongue out of his character.
“What do you have to say for yourself now? Oh, that’s right, you have no tongue to speak with. You want challenges and obstacles; I will give them to you. I’ll make you wish you had never come through that door.” Any semblance of sanity had left the author. Rather than finishing his novel, he only thought of making Franklin pay for his insolence. He swiveled his chair toward the keyboard and began typing again. Before he finished the first sentence, he felt Franklin’s hand on his shoulders, throwing him to the floor.
With grunts and groans, Franklin picked up a plant and broke the pot over the writer’s head. Soon, all was silent. The character sat at the computer desk to catch his breath. He could not believe what had just happened. He didn’t mean to be violent. He hated Terry, but he did not want him hurt. After catching his breath, he stepped over to wake the writer up. He lightly slapped the unconscious man’s face, but nothing happened. Soon, it became apparent that Terry was dead. Franklin sat in the chair, not believing what had happened. Then it came to him. He would write his tongue back in his mouth and give his character clarity. He would be free. Typing to undo the damage to his tongue, he stood and said, nothing. Horrified, he reached up to find his tongue still gone. He returned to the computer and typed. Nothing he did would change his character traits. It was something only the author could do. In panic and shock, Franklin stumbled toward the door, but passed out as he reached for the doorknob.
When he awoke, he found himself in a padded room, bound by a straight jacket. Doctors had come and gone, asking questions and trying to get him to speak. Cautiously, they decided to remove the straight jacket. He mimed the act of writing and they brought him a notepad and pen.
Outside the door, stood the author’s wife and a man in a white coat.
“Dr., is there anything you can do for my husband?”
“It will be a long treatment, but I think we will be able to help in time. Our first priority is to get him speaking again. By the way, who is Franklin? He insists that’s his name.
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