The Writer's Crush

"We've got a multitude of lessons to learn." I straightened my stance and fixated this brilliant head of mine to the blonde girl who was completely uneducated, or if you accept a harsher term, illiterate. She did not know a single idea, let the slightest, about the convoluted decrees of subject-verb agreement or the abstruse definitions of logical fallacies. Instead she preoccupied her standards with this lingo, something abhorred by a whiz writer of classic, which just happens to be me.

"Perhaps we will not scrutinize linguistics anymore. Nor the field of logic." I scrolled through an old parchment I find wondrous every single time I journey to the library whose existence is very fading. And in an almost tattered page, I find the perfect study topic. "Instead, we will skip to the world of literature and focus directly on the concepts of cliche plot devices, pompous yet undermining accessories a yearning writer should avoid at all costs."

She twirled her ponytail hair and carved an ivory stream across the mahogany breeze. This is what I have always admired about Stephanie Ambers. This is what makes her pass my lofty paradigms; what makes her qualify as my future half, one who would be concierge to my opulent mansions and matriarch to my genius offspring. My criteria was simple. Beauty, manner, and intelligence. Remove one blemish and she's flawless.

If I am to live my sublime life with her, she needs to be educated.

"Let us commence. Plot devices have many deceptive kinds, each willing to sabotage your prose or poetry's ingenuity. The Plot armor, for example, is when a character's luck in surviving chaotic forces is no longer realistic." I can see the widespread apathy in her face already. What else can I do? I've descended from my throne of strenuous vocabulary—my tumultuous to chaotic, my serendipity to luck.

"It would be better if we were to compare it with an exceptional craft. Say the unpublished novel 'Cobaltion' for example." Ah, my own authored tale. A narrative of a dystopian reality where beings called Smiths survive with the knowledge of forging. Blessed with fortune, I managed to finish writing it yesterday. How I long to pass it on to publishers, but I could no longer. For I have traded the manuscript for something else more precious.

I cleared my quavering voice, like a karaoke machine rebooting. I had been lecturing her for two hours now. But I will not cease yet. "A real protagonist struggles. He gets beaten down but he gets up and fights back. Cobaltion gets hit with a hammer, drowns his toe in molten lava, and he suffers because of it. However, Plot armor causes the character to progress on his journey with no pain at all."

She seemed to admire the reference. At least she's giving her full attentiveness. "But... it's just a hammer. My uncle was hit by a hammer and he didn't scream." Now, that's just... criticism. Though exasperated, I explained again. And she continued complaining like a sheep's displeasing baa. "But how could you be hurt if you just got hit by a hammer, especially if it was just a quick sweep?"

I was infuriated. "Why, Stephanie? Would you like to be hit by a hammer to know how it feels?" I found solace when she drew her lips to a close. "Now, the overused MacGuffin. Most commonly, the protagonist decides to travel the world in search of something. That something should be introduced in the story for a justified motive, like how Cobaltion forages for the last organic seed that could bring new hope for mankind. The MacGuffin denies this however. It says you don't need to know the treasure but you have to find it anyways."

Now her face was perplexed, like an art critic gazing at an illustration whose colors are gibberish. Then she asked something. Finally. Interest. "So, what is the treasure?" I was cut short. She wasn't the critic. She was the childish painting.

"That's the point, you don't know." I covered my despairing face with my stiff palm. This is hopeless. I was tempted to return this young lady to Orion, my roommate who had nothing. No attractiveness, no brains, no proper and easygoing lifestyle. I wonder what made Stephanie fall in love with him. But while he had the girl of my fantasies, I too had something he wanted. An unpublished novel that could heighten his reputation.

I could hear the reminisced sound of You don't want it and All I ought is a simple thing and I can write another masterpiece anyways. Should I regret it? Should I feel remorse for handing over Cobaltion to someone else, in exchange for this ignorant, no, brainless, no, moronic girl? I wanted to, but if I know one thing, it's that writers never give up.

"Alright. Next is Deus ex machina. Aristotle himself criticized this. This phenomenon occurs when an implausible ending brings the story to a joyful resolution. Like, if there's a lot of trouble and the heroes can't vanquish the final foe, a mysterious, uninvited savior comes and ends the story. This is contrary to Cobaltion, where all his experiences and skills serve as an inspiration to conquer his fear and final opponent. How about you, Stephanie? What do you think of it?" My voice was dimming out; I was plunged to the abyss of fiascos. I stared at her still-pondering face, hoping for a pitiful response. She did respond, only that she gave an infantile one. "So, is the treasure silver coins or expensive amulets? Because I would not go out for a few dimes."

"Stephanie, that's not the question! I've spent all this time for you, and you don't even care how fatigued I am!" The heart-rending pleads for charity must have worked, for she shed a tear at the sight of such a handsome boy fraudulently crying. So she does care for this adolescent. Now I am even more eager to tutor her.

"I think the Machina type ending is bad, because, um, er, it doesn't give the necessary emotion for whoever reads the hook?" I stood from my seat at the oak bench, petrified with awe when the retort kissed my ears. She did it. She answered correctly. "You did it, Stephanie. You answered critically and analytically. Girl, I'm proud of you." She celebrated with an assortment of slang sayings—a sprinkling of bouta's and hardo's and gee's.

Motivation flooded my heart. It overflowed with satisfaction and merriment, and just as I thought teaching could not get any better, she inquired about other types of plot devices. She was no longer a gibberish art form, nor a lowly critic. I have molded her to be more. She was Athena and Aphrodite combined.

We consumed another hour exploring the notions of plot devices—the nice delicate ones this time—such as shoulder angel, when a good and bad conscience battles against a persona's decision-making, plot vouchers, how one tool given at the start becomes a handy apparatus. We even took up the love triangle theory. And I can fairly say, she's gaining more expertise and recreation with me for a single day than Orion could for a lifetime. I could remember her asking, "Why do other amateurs fall for this... inconvenient traps?"

"Because they're so smart." She scratched her scalp at the mocking yet intricate idea. "Come on, Stephanie, I was being sarcastic." We chuckled and tittered and giggled. Then, a Eureka! prospect came to mind. Why not profess my loyal endearment, my stellar infatuation, my eternal love yonder the tests of space and time, for her, right here, right now?

I held both her hands in mine. "Stephanie, the moment I saw you and your sapphire eyes, your cerise lips, I fell in love. It was as if I jumped off the tallest waterfall, I dared to suffer for you. I took a missile for our friendship to evolve into tender affection. But look at me, I had not been hurt for I am the best, the one you should be with."

She grinned scoffingly at my concise, but sugarcoated words. What was wrong? They were prodigious, glittered with literary wisdom. She slowly spoke, "Plot armor. How could you have survived a missile?"

I turned red. But not the rose tint that envelopes your face when blushing. Mine was crimson, like a battlefield bloodied with wrath and embarrassment from the losing side. Guess what? I'm not losing. "I seek you, Stephanie. You are the reason I started my journey. We may not know each other well, but we can start by learning to love each other."

"MacGuffin. Why seek me when you don't know me fully?" She was jesting and I was burning. I was an ember igniting in still air, and she better not let me explode. She wasn't the greek goddess of strategic war, nor elegance and charms. She was Momus, the joker, the satire one.

"If our argument continues, my rich father will come here himself and bribe your parents to wed us." I did not want to resort to forceful deeds, but she was unwavering. Hard to crack. Idiotic in every sense. But when I want something, I'll get it. Whether it be a streaming subscription, an exquisite car, or a consummate wife.

"That's Deus ex machina. Your father was unintroduced. Should I call Aristotle? Nah, I don't have his number." I bellowed from my voice box, and what came out was a deafening shriek. "Why would you not go with me?"

"Because I love Orion more than you. Isn't that one of the nice delicate devices? Love triangle?"

I kept my posture unswerving, just as I did with my thoughts and my poetic articulation. But, within the psychic chasms of my, I hate to admit, finite mind, a macabre skirmish was raging. Pirates of contrition gushing throughout the battlefield with their cannons of mourning, ready to slice remaining sense of fondness and dignity. A tip-tap broke the disconsolate atmosphere. What now?

In front of me was a camcorder, the affordable, cheap rather, ones you buy on bargain kiosks instead via the Internet. Its lens half-broken; its cassette, inaesthetic. Wait? She's filming me? She's filming a writer's internal struggle?

"You're funny when your shoulder angels combat each other. This camera? Oh, Orion gave it to me a week ago. Who knew how handy it would be? Plot voucher, right? But don't worry, I love you, 'cause you're so smart."

I knew it. Fate was only playing with our hearts. It was only making us struggle. Love isn't easy as completing a book manuscript in one day, you need 365 documents if that's the case. But still, that confession was as abrupt as a sudden Big Bang...

"Ha! Being sarcastic. How can you be smart if you fell for a couple of plot devices already?"

That's it. The embers have assembled into a hurricane of fiery dreams and magma hopes. It happened. I exploded. "Alright, Stephanie. You did it. You're a full-time literary expert. You're Athena, you're Mimir, you're Saraswati, all battered down into one singularity. Can you give me one reason why you should go with Orion—a feeler who cannot decide for himself, a poor student who may not have lunch tomorrow—than me—a matured, educated just as you are, and a noble eighteen year-old?"

She posed confidently, as if she was to give an influential oration. "I certainly can," she said with the timbre of a champion, "he wrote the novel we've been talking about—he wrote Cobaltion and I loved it."