Wild Fiction

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‘What keeps you writing this story?’
‘It’s the mystery and excitement about what happens next.’
‘You mean you don’t know what’s going to happen next?’
‘Sometimes I have an idea and try to put it to paper. It doesn’t usually work. It usually runs off at a tangent ending somewhere completely different to where I originally envisaged it going.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you? You could end up anywhere doing anything.’
‘Remember, I’m not fictional. I can always stop writing and escape. Walk out and go for a beer or off on holiday. You, on the other hand, are stuck here in the mélange of fantasy and magical realism. I find that I become promethean during these periods when I’ve left the keyboard and just have a pencil, notebook and a mind full of ideas.’
‘You’ll piss the reader off if you don’t tell them what promethium means and make them look it up.’
‘Promethium is a radioactive element of the lanthanide series artificially produced by the fission of uranium. The word I used was promethean and the only reason you want me to explicate it is because you’re too lazy to look it up,’ the author smiled at her.
‘I know what it means. It means boldly creative or defiantly original and I don’t think that you’re either. That little explanation about promethium is the sort of thing that James would say. You’re showing your lack of originality by copying him.’ Rebecca narrowed her eyes and stared at the author. ‘What you said about this being magical realism is also rubbish. It shows your total lack of understanding about what you’re doing. This is called metafiction. Anyway, you should be working, not chatting to me. Sit down and get on with your writing. I need real words to say and proper actions to perform. None of this abstract dialogue about the book. Let’s get on with the story.’ She pursed her lips and placed her hands on her hips.
‘Like that,’ the author said.
‘Stop it,’ Rebecca glowered at him. ‘I never purse my lips,’ she said, her index finger levelled at his nose. ‘Unless, of course, it’s appropriate.’ She turned her back on him and walked over to the bookshelf. She tilted her head sideways and read the titles of the books the author had collected over the years.
‘I’m stuck,’ the author said. ‘I’m sure I know where the story’s going but the prose I’m currently writing is awful.’

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