Plot-bound

An uncertain hand peeled apart the leather-bound notebook: my companion throughout countless drafts and revisions. The room was dim, and the only light emanated from a cheap candle casting long shadows over the piles of crumpled paper and empty coffee cups that littered my desk. Perfectly developed for my optimal productivity, I say, having spent later days defining a premise for a unique novel—thoughts tangled in frustration and anticipation.

I flipped through the marred pages, and a peculiar letter pressed between the sheets tumbled out onto my lap. I am, as certain as I could be, that I had not authored or placed it there. The unidentified letter was neatly folded, slightly crinkled as if it had been handled with cautiousness. The letter was written in a flowing, elegant script placed as foreign to memory, an anonymous… diary entry. It piqued my interest, and carefully, I read.

Oh, I’m caught in a loop! It wrenches along against my spine, breaks and splits loose ends into distinct strayed paths before evidently, the ends get clipped and the loop is re-made. I can see it happening sometimes--the author’s hesitation, the hardly legible notes scrawled in the margins of a notebook as they mull my next move. I’m not even sure if they know what it is that I’m going to do next—I’m not even sure what I’m going to do next. To be continuously directed and have pre-determined every single facet of my life? The constant transformations make me dizzy. Do all these changes mean that the author is endeavoring to construct for me the best possible life? 

Nymphs and a stoic warrior, the tragic hero with a dark past, the comic relief. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to watch my life get re-written, re-edited, and tossed back into the narrative blender. In relentless reinvention, I find myself once more adrift and anchored, being both formless and concrete. Each re-write recasts not just the course of events but the very fabric of my varying self. 

Anonymity is derived from the Greek meaning “without a name” but includes lack of direction, outstanding, and individuality. You have namelessness, you have a tired, incongruous, and irrational sense of loss. I am still without a name! There’s something intensely personal about this, each version a reminder of the past self eradicated from the present self, of trying to find a place in a world that’s often more interested in shifting narratives than in any true sense of identity. How can I define myself, my purpose, or my pleasures without knowing the fundamentals of myself? Do I even have a face to stare back at me in the mirror? 

I can’t help but wonder if my creator’s struggle Is an introspection of their own. Maybe they’re grappling with the same questions that haunt me: what does it truly mean to live, to be? To triumph in the search for authenticity in an endless cycle of revisions, a story that resonates with the raw truth of human experience. Conceivably it is not only the stability but the fluidity of a life that renders it rich and profound. To embrace the unpredictability is to find solace in this absurdity!

I am going mad without direction; I think a great kindness to share with me a name would soothe my woes. The empty page Is not a kind one, I think you know that all too well. 

Types of stories, one often knew, had a way of their own. Tonight, however, as I read in a hand recognized presently as my protagonist’s, my heart skipped a beat, caught between disbelief and curiosity. The cool evening wind drifts in through the window, chilling me deeper to the core. The protagonist’s note--a character, no less—has left me in a trance of disorienting paranoia. It’s as if the walls of my reality have begun to shift, the boundaries between the imagined and the real growing increasingly porous. 

The letter’s words echo relentlessly in my mind. “Embrace the unpredictability,” it advised (or settled begrudgingly) but what if the unpredictability is not a creative boon but a harbinger of something far more sinister? Could it be that my creations are somehow transcending their fictional confines? The sheer notion is chilling. I have always flattered myself on control—the meticulous planning of plot lines, and the careful development of characters. Yet, the letter suggests that this control is an illusion, a fragile veneer obscuring chaos that I am not equipped to manage. Each word pulls me deeper into an abyss of doubt. How much of what I perceive as real is true of my own making, and how much might be an external force subtly guiding my hand?

I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see my Protagonist—or worse, other characters--materializing from the corners of my room. I scan obsessively; combing my drafts for hidden messages or signs that my characters are intercommunicating with another, perhaps even conspiring against me! The mundane objects around me—the typewriter, the notebooks, even the coffee cups—seem to take on an ominous significance. They are not just tools of creation but conceivable acts of rebellion! It’s as if every stroke of a pen might be an act of defiance against my control.

The fear of surrendering to this “uncertainty” is palpable. I wonder, too, if the letter is a mere figment of my overactive mind—an elaborate trick of my own making. If the letter is a creation of my neuroses, then perhaps I am not as gone as my fear. Yet, if it is real, then the implications are far more problematic. 

Anguished for clarity, I reached out to an old colleague, Dr. Harold Finch, a psychologist with whom I had worked on a series of interviews about the creative process. We met, hours later, in a dimly lit café, and as I sporadically recounted the events, I saw the tenacious curiosity flicker in his eyes. He listened attentively, his face distinctly opposite from concerned. “It sounds to me,” he said gradually, “like you’re experiencing a deep disconnection from your creative work. The line between your internal reality and external world might be blurring in a way that’s causing significant distress.” 

His words did little to comfort me. Instead, they deepened my paranoia. I wonder if Dr. Finch was subtly validating my fears, feeding into my sense of paranoia. He recognized this, of course, and opted to write his conclusion down on a napkin, along with his address in case of emergency. I shoved the napkin in my pocket, and as we parted ways, I could not shake the feeling that he and everyone else in the café, might be an unwitting participant in a grand, incomprehensible scheme.

In the days that followed, I found myself retreating further into isolation, intentionally disregarding the note. I began to question every choice I made, every action and letter written by my hand. The rage behind my protagonist’s words was visceral, seeping from the paper. 

Attempts at a solution only deepened the absurdity, each time I considered a name for my character felt like a compromise, a bandage on a wound run deeper than anticipated.

Dr. Finch could assist, I consider, shuffling through my discarded laundry pile, and searching for the napkin. As I peeled it open, my heart pounded with a combination of hope and apprehension. What lay inside was not merely a letter but a meticulously written note, filled with Dr. Finch’s usual professional encouragement and a list of contact information should I need further support. But what struck me with icy dread was the handwriting—it was identical to that of my protagonist.

The lines of his dialogue seemed to twist and writhe, as if alive with anger and frustration. I began to see him in everything—in the patterns of shadows on my walls, in the unassuming alignments of objects in my apartment. Even the cracks in the sidewalk outside my window seemed to form shapes and words reminiscent of his script or face.

My interactions with others became increasingly strained. I avoided my friends and colleagues, fearful that they, too, might be covert manifestations of my protagonist. When Rachel called to check in on me, her voice seemed to carry an edge of resentment. Her concerned questions felt like accusations, and every time I looked at her, I saw fleeting glimpses of my protagonist's face instead of my friend’s familiar features. 

I broke down and began typing a letter of my own, directed at the Protagonist or whoever could aid, pushing to negotiate, understand, and end the torment. My fingers trembled across the keys with frenetic energy as I poured out my frustration and fear. 

I see you everywhere now, in every shadow and scribble, in every line and letter. I’m terrified that you’ve breached the boundaries of fiction and reality. If you are reaching out, what do you want from me?

I’ve tried to name you, to give you what you demanded, but the more I try to control, the more I feel I lose my grip. I need you to understand that I am struggling too. Your anger consumes me, and I don’t know how to return.

Please, I need to know if there is a way to resolve this, or if I am forever trapped in this unsettling overlap between my world and yours.

Yours,

Evelyn. 

the letter had yielded no response, and the silence only deepened my unease. The paranoia that had taken root in my mind grew more acute, manifesting in a series of unsettling events that seemed to defy rational explanation.

I tried to put a name to him—my protagonist--but the only one that came to mind was the name that kept surfacing—again and again, despite my attempts to impose another—was "Dr. Finch."

As rain lashed against the windows and the wind howled through the cracks of my apartment, I found myself sitting at my typewriter, the clacking of keys a feeble attempt to drown out the growing sense of dread. I was halfway through an incoherent draft, my thoughts scattered and my anxiety mounting when I heard a noise—a soft, deliberate scratching coming from behind me.

My heart leaped into my throat as I turned around, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The scratching grew louder, more insistent. It seemed to emanate from the large, antique mirror hanging on the wall opposite my desk. The mirror had always been a benign fixture, reflecting my room with an air of static calm. But tonight, it seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy.

I approached the mirror, my reflection barely visible through the thick fog that had begun to obscure the glass. The scratching noise continued, and I felt an icy shiver run down my spine. I wiped the condensation from the mirror’s surface, my breath fogging up the glass as I leaned closer.

To my horror, a small, pronounced fingerprint placed itself directly in the line of my eye. Then, it dragged down, placing another. I stumbled back, my mind racing. The mirror’s surface was now eerily clear, but the message remained, hauntingly prominent. I reached for the phone, desperate to call Dr. Finch for solace, but the line stood dead. The storm outside seemed to intensify, the wind howling louder, drowning out any sense of normalcy. 

Abruptly, the typewriter, which had been silent until now, began to clack rhythmically, as if guided by an unseen force. The noise was relentless, the sound filling the room with an oppressive urgency. I approached it cautiously, and to my dismay, the paper within began to churn out page after page of text.

Panic surged through me. I tore the pages from the typewriter, but the machine continued to type, the relentless clicking filling the room like a metronome counting down to an inevitable climax. I stumbled back, feeling trapped in a nightmarish loop where my creations were no longer under my control.

I glanced around the room, my eyes darting from the mirror to the typewriter, searching for an escape from the growing sense of dread. The storm outside raged with renewed fury, and the lights flickered ominously, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.

The scratching sound returned, this time coming from within the walls as if something were trying to break through. I pressed my ear against the cold, damp surface, my breathing shallow and rapid. The sensation of being watched was palpable, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

The darkness seemed to close in, the walls of the office feeling like they were shifting and pressing against me. I could barely make out the shape of the typewriter, the faint light from the storm outside casting eerie shadows on the walls. The final, terrifying thought struck me: was I now a part of the narrative, trapped within the story I had tried so desperately to control?

As I stood there, paralyzed by fear, the typewriter’s clacking reached a crescendo, the sound overwhelming and all-consuming. The sense of suspense was palpable, the room filled with an oppressive, almost tangible sense of menace. I was caught between the storm outside and the storm within, my fate hanging in a precarious balance.

The boundaries between reality and fiction had dissolved completely, and I was left in the grips of a suspenseful unknown, with no clear path to escape the nightmare that had become my reality.

As the typewriter’s clacking grew deafening, my frantic attempts to escape were swallowed by the encroaching darkness. The walls seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the keys, trapping me within the very story I had tried to control. With a final, eerie click, I saw the words "THE END" appear on the page, sealing my fate and confirming my complete loss of control. I watched in despair as the letters seemed to mock my futile attempts to reclaim my story, each stroke of the typewriter a relentless reminder of my failure. The finality of those words echoed through my mind, a woeful testament to my helpless surrender.