Autor Freewrite (#1?)
I went ahead and scribbled out a bit of Autor backstory. (A 'freewrite', ie, whatever came to mind first.) Not 100% sure if I'll use this on Poly or not, but I might...I'm still trying to work out how restarted!Autor's backstory works, as well as his relationship with his parents (and other people).
I'm not totally sure about Autor here. He doesn't sound...eight, like he should. Although I guess he'd be the sort of kid that sounds waaaay too old for his age.
And Uhrmacher...Uhrmacher is elusive. I probably shouldn't mess with him, he was fine the way he was before, people quite like him, but I can never feel quite satisfied...
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My name is Autor. In my language, it means “author”. To me, it meant more than just a name, particularly as I was growing up. It was my destiny, my very reason for existing. As long as I held a pen in my hand, I would have the power to change the world.
Or so he told me, as I sat at a desk that was a bit too large for me, a swan-feather quill in my hand, the nib wet with ink. (Blue and black ink in a seven-to-three ratio, of course.) In general my father was not a very emotional man. He was quiet, perhaps even distant, even though he was constantly hovering nearby. It felt like I could never really escape his gaze - maybe he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t disappear. A part of me wants to assume he did it out of attentive love, the way someone watches over a priceless treasure. Another part of me is sure that he must have been watching for some mistake to correct. I was never really sure what he was thinking - do children ever really understand their parents?
Regardless, at that moment I could sense his excitement radiating in the room. He drew in a breath, softly, as I put my quill against the paper.
‘Once,’ I wrote.
‘upon’
‘a time…’
I stopped there, my pen pressing against the paper until the ink bled through and stained the wood of the desk.
“Go on,” he told me. “Once upon a time.”
“I don’t know what to write after that.”
“Anything, anything you want! Whatever comes to mind.”
I swallowed, picked up the pen, and continued to write slowly.
‘there was a boy.’ An eight-year-old boy.
‘He had dark, wavy hair, like his mother. But his eyes were hazel and small, like his father’s father.’
That was true enough. He also had his father’s chin…and his poor eyesight.
‘The boy loved books so much, that one day, he decided to write a story of his own.’
“Decided” is debatable. I’d phrase it as “his father decided”, if I had the chance to write it again.
‘So he sat down in front of a desk and began to write. A story about…’
I froze again, staring at the blank page. About…about what?
“Your mother,” he said softly, firmly, breaking the silence.
“I can’t write about her.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t.”
“Then write about me.”
“I can’t write about you, either.”
He straightened. I could feel his eyes glaring at the back of my head, as if he’d somehow taken offense. “And why not?”
“You’re not my character.”
The answer came out of my mouth before I even had a chance to think it. I still don’t really know what I meant.
He was silent for a moment. Any idea I had about his emotions had disappeared behind the glass lenses in his glasses.
“Very well. I won’t disturb you, then.”
I could hear his footsteps retreating, going out of the room, but I continued staring at the paper. I knew that wasn’t the answer he was hoping to hear. I wasn’t satisfied with it, either.
But I had to write something, didn’t I?
I stared at that paper for nearly an hour, eyes half-closed, trying to force myself to think of words to write. None would come. Eventually I gave up and left the paper sitting on the desk.
I think my father burned the story afterwards, I’m not sure. I do know that I’ve never been able to write much more than that…
But it doesn’t matter. I’ll write something. I know I can do it. The stories are in my head, enough to fill a dozen volumes…all I need now are the words.
I'm not totally sure about Autor here. He doesn't sound...eight, like he should. Although I guess he'd be the sort of kid that sounds waaaay too old for his age.
And Uhrmacher...Uhrmacher is elusive. I probably shouldn't mess with him, he was fine the way he was before, people quite like him, but I can never feel quite satisfied...
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My name is Autor. In my language, it means “author”. To me, it meant more than just a name, particularly as I was growing up. It was my destiny, my very reason for existing. As long as I held a pen in my hand, I would have the power to change the world.
Or so he told me, as I sat at a desk that was a bit too large for me, a swan-feather quill in my hand, the nib wet with ink. (Blue and black ink in a seven-to-three ratio, of course.) In general my father was not a very emotional man. He was quiet, perhaps even distant, even though he was constantly hovering nearby. It felt like I could never really escape his gaze - maybe he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t disappear. A part of me wants to assume he did it out of attentive love, the way someone watches over a priceless treasure. Another part of me is sure that he must have been watching for some mistake to correct. I was never really sure what he was thinking - do children ever really understand their parents?
Regardless, at that moment I could sense his excitement radiating in the room. He drew in a breath, softly, as I put my quill against the paper.
‘Once,’ I wrote.
‘upon’
‘a time…’
I stopped there, my pen pressing against the paper until the ink bled through and stained the wood of the desk.
“Go on,” he told me. “Once upon a time.”
“I don’t know what to write after that.”
“Anything, anything you want! Whatever comes to mind.”
I swallowed, picked up the pen, and continued to write slowly.
‘there was a boy.’ An eight-year-old boy.
‘He had dark, wavy hair, like his mother. But his eyes were hazel and small, like his father’s father.’
That was true enough. He also had his father’s chin…and his poor eyesight.
‘The boy loved books so much, that one day, he decided to write a story of his own.’
“Decided” is debatable. I’d phrase it as “his father decided”, if I had the chance to write it again.
‘So he sat down in front of a desk and began to write. A story about…’
I froze again, staring at the blank page. About…about what?
“Your mother,” he said softly, firmly, breaking the silence.
“I can’t write about her.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t.”
“Then write about me.”
“I can’t write about you, either.”
He straightened. I could feel his eyes glaring at the back of my head, as if he’d somehow taken offense. “And why not?”
“You’re not my character.”
The answer came out of my mouth before I even had a chance to think it. I still don’t really know what I meant.
He was silent for a moment. Any idea I had about his emotions had disappeared behind the glass lenses in his glasses.
“Very well. I won’t disturb you, then.”
I could hear his footsteps retreating, going out of the room, but I continued staring at the paper. I knew that wasn’t the answer he was hoping to hear. I wasn’t satisfied with it, either.
But I had to write something, didn’t I?
I stared at that paper for nearly an hour, eyes half-closed, trying to force myself to think of words to write. None would come. Eventually I gave up and left the paper sitting on the desk.
I think my father burned the story afterwards, I’m not sure. I do know that I’ve never been able to write much more than that…
But it doesn’t matter. I’ll write something. I know I can do it. The stories are in my head, enough to fill a dozen volumes…all I need now are the words.