strange and shaky as the writer determines what is to happen. It then takes shape and a story line comes out. Your story line is just as strange as you are. I’ll try to tell you what was going on. It seems that the first place you ended up was a swamp with a clockmaker. He gave you a clock that was supposed to have some importance but it doesn’t sound like the writer knew the importance himself. He never brought it up again. After that you went on a few adventures, the writer was getting a feel for the story and the possible characters. I can’t say exactly what the story was about just from what you said. Only you know the story completely. If you think hard you can remember exactly what ended up on the pages he wrote. And now let’s talk about Ramonia. She is an interesting one. I believe that she is someone from the writer’s life and he decided to put her in the story. But he could never figure out where he wanted her. At first she was a princess, and then a coworker in an office building. By the way, that one sounded like the writer was using his real life. And then she appeared on the sun with you and even in a hotel. He clearly was trying to find a place for her. That part of your journey, where everything was changing and nothing seemed to make sense; that was the idea stage. You had no control and the writer was doing what he wanted with you. After that you found out that you had some control and you made it so you went to the places you wanted to go. When you picked up that spoon and that hat you were controlling the destination without knowing it. You knew what it was supposed to do and so controlled where you went. That’s where the wizard comes in.”
“He said he was like me.”
“He is an idea, but a different kind. Almost every idea that comes into a person’s head has a point of inspiration. Maybe you hear something or see something that gives you an idea. The wizard represents the original inspiration to your story. The real Lawrence Foster Brickem heard or saw something in his life and the idea for you came into his head. The wizard could have been a television show or a book the writer was reading. Either way he ended up with you, the younger idea. To give you an example imagine that you are reading a great book about a girl who goes to live with her grandmother for the summer while a parent is sick. And then you come up with an idea for a story where a boy lives with his grandfather. Your idea could be wildly different from the story of the girl with her grandmother, but that still formed some sort of base. The girl, or the embodiment of her story, would appear in the boy’s life somehow. The writer would never know. That is a crude example but I think it works.”
“I think I get it, but what about me having control?”
“Alright think of it this way. We, ideas and characters I mean, live in a highly abstract world. If the writer feels something then something happens to the character. For you it looks like the writer had a death in the family and you saw a glimpse into his conscious mind. Remember when you were in the hospital and saw him for the first time? After feeling sad he grew angry and he took it out on you, someone he could control and you died many times. Shortly after you took control with the wizard’s help. That’s when you became a character. The difference that we here see between the two is drastic. An idea is something the writer thinks up. The character is what the writer finally writes down. That’s when you get the control. You were shown your book by the wizard. That book was the symbol of the connection between you and the writer. Just as the pages he wrote acted as the symbol of you in his world. When you burned it you burned the story and the real Lawrence suddenly decided that he should start over with you. That’s why you appeared on the cliff again and didn’t remember anything. The version of the story you went through then was more polished than before. The wizard helped you see that the character you became before burning the story was a much better one and so you remembered your past and the writer decided to return to that version of you. It’s very complicated, I know. You two, you and the writer, are a team without either of you knowing it. He can control you and you can control the direction you go in.”
My head was spinning. I took a seat on the bed and tried to wade through the vast amounts of new information.
“There were eyes. I saw eyes and they knew everything about me. But they were just eyes.”
“That was the writer looking in on you. He only did it twice, both times when you were in distress. The first time he saved you on the boat. You felt a piece of his conscious mind. That sadness you felt was probably related to the death that came shortly after. The second time was on top of that building when you were about to jump off. Right after that you saw him in person. I’ve never heard of anything like it but it must be some type of special bond you had. You must be a great gift to him.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I know anything anymore, not that I ever knew anything. This is all just too much.”
Wilmer nodded in understanding. “I’ll leave you for today. I’ll be back in the morning to see how you are doing.”
“Wait!” I said. “Where is the destination? Where am I trying to go?”
Wilmer smiled broadly. “Everyone here is trying to get to the same place. We all want to be published. Once a story is published it goes to a new place, a paradise for stories. I can’t tell you about that because I’ve never been. Once a story gets there it doesn’t come back.”
“What kind of story are you?”
He took a seat at the little desk. “My writer was a cook. She wrote a very interesting little cookbook and I was the narrator. I explained the recipes and told jokes. The world I lived in was very interesting and had food everywhere. Anyway she wrote it all up but couldn’t get it published. I assume she died some time ago and the manuscript is sitting in an attic somewhere. One day I will either be discovered and published or thrown out. I daresay I’m a bit old fashioned. I don’t know if anyone would want to read me now. So I take responsibility in telling the new stories what’s going on. That’s what you are now. When you appeared here you left being just a character and are now the embodiment of your story, waiting to get published.”
“I know you will make it.” I said.
“Thank you.” He stood up. “Is that it for today? Any other burning questions?”
I thought for a bit and came up with one more question. “Right before I got here I could no longer control what was happening. I flashed through places really fast. Do you know what that was?”
“Time doesn’t go the same way for us. One of your little adventures might have taken months to think up but only felt like a day or two for you. Uncontrollable flashing most likely means that your story was passed around. Many people thought up places for you to go and things for you to do. Those all flashed before your eyes as you entered other people’s minds. Finally the author got you back and made the final decisions. He wrote you, and now you are here as a manuscript.”
“Alright, thank you. I think I have enough to digest for one day.”
“In that case I will be back tomorrow to check on you. Remember Lawrence, you are with friends here. We are all simply translations of our creator’s inspirations.”
He bowed and left me alone in my little cabin. I fell back onto my bed and tried to go through everything piece by piece. I was now a finished story. I didn’t feel so bad anymore. I finally knew my purpose and had a final destination in mind. I hoped the real Lawrence wouldn’t forget about me.
19. The Destination and the People Who Live There
Evening came before too long. I sauntered outside and took a look around for the first time while knowing what was going on. Several new cabins had already been put up since I arrived. Wilmer went around explaining things to the new stories just like he did for me.
I walked down the row, looking around at my new world. I passed the sad and lonely stories that had probably been there a while. Before long I was with the happy stories who knew they were about to leave. There were so many different types. Some weren’t even human. A few monster looking things were aro
und as well as a talking rock. The humans had every possible look you could imagine. Some were fighters from history or made up worlds, there were astronauts, athletes, and regular people.
I found out a great deal about other stories and how their worlds looked. Most were much more realistic than mine. I told bits and pieces of my story to anyone who would listen. Everyone was surprised by how convoluted it was. I enjoyed listening to their tales. I was in a world with people like me, and I loved every minute of it. The whole idea that I was just a story made up in someone’s mind no longer bothered me. We were all the same there and it didn’t bother them. I learned how to view my situation as good. If all went well I was going to end up in a paradise for my kind of people, and that sounded all right with me.
That night I went back to my cabin and tried to sleep. I wondered if I even could. To my surprise I dozed off not long after getting in bed. I had a dream. I think it was of my story and I was able to see what the real Lawrence put into the final manuscript. I must have had a big impact on him, he wrote closely to what actually happened to me.
It started with me appearing on a cliff and diving off, not having any memories. I swam down
A Translation of Inspiration Page 23
