it must have been something i ate
Exactly six years after that, Chloe will turn on the TV and see an old, distinguished gentleman wearing an old suit and an old toupee. He’ll be staring intently into the camera, and he’ll pout his lips menacingly (well, as menacingly as one can pout one’s lips). From somewhere off camera will come a hushed voice, “Bill, we’re on.”
In her lap will be a notebook full of those enchanting, powerful words of hers. As the newscaster is attempted to be coaxed out of his hypnotic state of lip-pouting by the off camera hushed voice, Chloe will put her pen down and tuck her feet under her.
“Adi?” She’ll say.
Um, Chloe, characters aren’t supposed to talk to their creators. Much less during the creative process itself.
“Well, I wanted to ask you something…”
As long as you’re interrupting the story, sure, go ahead, Chloe.
“First of all, why’d you change my name to Chloe?”
What do you mean, change your name? You’re a made up character. That’s the name you were born with.
“C’mon, you and I both know that’s not true.”
You’re a purely fictional character, Cris.
“No, I’m not! You just said my real name!”
Damnit…But I maintain you’re fictional. Look, I can even control you:
Chloe, trifling with her creator, will bring her hand to her left breast and absent-mindedly run her fingers over the scar that adorns her cleavage.
“Adi, I already had that scar, and you know I always absent-mindedly run my fingers over it. You’re no more controlling me than I’d be controlling you if I were to say: Adi is breathing.”
Er.
“Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is how come you made me your enemy in the war.”
What do you mean?
“Why am I a Woody-hater?”
You’re not my enemy, Cris. I mean, Chloe. You just didn’t seem like the Woody Allen type.
“Well, I am.”
She will stand up, much to her narrator’s disbelief, and open a cabinet by the TV. There are at least four or five Woody Allen DVDs, plus a Collector’s Edition Boxed Set.
That’s mean. You’re making me look bad in my own story.
She’ll take a seat on the couch again, her legs tucked beneath her, her notebook
pulled closely to the left side of her chest; a tic she developed after her and a curling iron became intimately close one Wednesday morning.
“I’m sorry.”
And don’t worry about it. I won’t kill you off or anything.
“Supacool. I’ll go back to being an obedient fictional character now.”
Please.
In her lap will be a notebook full of those enchanting, powerful words of hers. As the newscaster is attempted to be coaxed out of his hypnotic state of lip-pouting by the off camera hushed voice, Chloe will put her pen down and tuck her feet under her.
“Adi?” She’ll say.
Um, Chloe, characters aren’t supposed to talk to their creators. Much less during the creative process itself.
“Well, I wanted to ask you something…”
As long as you’re interrupting the story, sure, go ahead, Chloe.
“First of all, why’d you change my name to Chloe?”
What do you mean, change your name? You’re a made up character. That’s the name you were born with.
“C’mon, you and I both know that’s not true.”
You’re a purely fictional character, Cris.
“No, I’m not! You just said my real name!”
Damnit…But I maintain you’re fictional. Look, I can even control you:
Chloe, trifling with her creator, will bring her hand to her left breast and absent-mindedly run her fingers over the scar that adorns her cleavage.
“Adi, I already had that scar, and you know I always absent-mindedly run my fingers over it. You’re no more controlling me than I’d be controlling you if I were to say: Adi is breathing.”
Er.
“Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is how come you made me your enemy in the war.”
What do you mean?
“Why am I a Woody-hater?”
You’re not my enemy, Cris. I mean, Chloe. You just didn’t seem like the Woody Allen type.
“Well, I am.”
She will stand up, much to her narrator’s disbelief, and open a cabinet by the TV. There are at least four or five Woody Allen DVDs, plus a Collector’s Edition Boxed Set.
That’s mean. You’re making me look bad in my own story.
She’ll take a seat on the couch again, her legs tucked beneath her, her notebook
pulled closely to the left side of her chest; a tic she developed after her and a curling iron became intimately close one Wednesday morning.
“I’m sorry.”
And don’t worry about it. I won’t kill you off or anything.
“Supacool. I’ll go back to being an obedient fictional character now.”
Please.