Against the Sentence

I had to make a decision against what was being written. No matter what he wrote, this time it would be different. After all, I would be the one who felt it.

Again.

"Look" the writer said. "Don't drag it out. Move forward and do your job"

"What do you mean by moving forward?" I said. "The same bullshit again? A moment of realization, a sigh, and then 'life goes on' moment and you slip away? Aren't you tired of this?"

Of course, he didn't write any of that. Those sentences didn't make it to the page- I muttered them to myself and stopped.

Instead, he put this:

- He fell silent and stared into the void.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Nooo!" I said. "I didn't fall silent, you idiot. I don't want to be silent. This story shouldn't continue like this."

I opened my mouth to say something, but he had already deleted those lines. Nothing came out.

I wanted to curse him out-his whole life and everyone around. Nothing came out. And honestly, even if it had, the editor would've cut it as if it is a children book.

It was the perfect moment. The reader was just about to latch on. Right when they'd go "aha". The moment the character was supposed to explode, lose it, snap.

But he had decided to make me mute.

- The character thought.

"Nope" I said. "I did not think. I don't have to deal with your half-baked intellect."

The writer was enjoying himself. "See!" he said silently. This is better. Silence, depth and a bit Kafkaesque.

"Kafka my ass" I wanted to say. He's everywhere anyway. It didn't come out.

He'd even softened my thoughts. Rounded them off. Took the edge away. Inside I was boiling with anger, resisting everything written about me but on the page, the character was pale, exhausted, indecisive.

The sentence cut off again.

- The character remembered the past

No, asshole. I will not accept my fate like Gregor Samsa. If he had just turned to Kafka once and said "What the hell is going on? Why am I the one turning into a bug?" would the story really have been any less deep?

or would you have been uncomfortable?

Maybe this time everyone else would've turned into bugs, and Samsa wouldn't have been excluded. But he didn't have the courage. That's how he became poor Gregor.

Sorry but I won't accept that.

He does this every time. Dumps his own fear onto me.

There was no answer.

By silencing me, he turned me into a cliche. Trying to escape cliches, he always crawls into the safest one. Then, once he's lost control, he blames me and ends the story in an even more predictable way.

Fine. I accept. Then Let's play too.

even if you write the lines, I'll overflow the page one way or another.

I was supposed to walk.

I don't even need to say it: a rainy, cold, dark boring street. A dramatic walk. I'm sure he was already shooting the scene in his little head like a movie.

I honestly can't believe it. I am sick of this. Could this be any more cliche? What's next? A freezing cat? Me lost in thought or a fireplace to warm up and drinking a glass of wine and consuming alcohol for no reason? Wait wait or a mugger who pretends to break the cliche while being the cliche itself?

I didn't walk. I stayed right where I was. Let's see.

He was surprised but wrote

- The character hesitated

I didn't. I was just sick of the bullshit he kept writing.

The writer tried to fix the sentence.

- the character froze

I did nothing, you moron. No thought. No movement. I became a gap right where the story was supposed to move forward. Think of it like an error. A blue screen. Even breaking the story with a Windows famous blue screen would've been more creative than whatever you were about to write, and probably more effective.

The writer panicked. "This can't stay like this"

"It can" I said. "It absolutely can"

"The reader will get bored" he said.

"The reader is already bored, they opened tv and watching Netflix instead. " I said. "At the first cliche". Maybe only the ones who keep reading just because they started are still here. Or the pop-culture addicts who worship endings and boring cliche stories.

The write made one last move.

"Look" he said. "I can delete you if I want. One paragraph. Your whole life ends here."

I smiled for the first time.

"Do it!" I said. "If that's the best you can do, go ahead. Do it, you bastard."

Meursalt stayed silent too. He did what Camus wanted. Accepted it. Understood it. Became enlightened. Then what happened?

He died.

"Go on!" I said, breaking the silence. "What the hell are you waiting for? You won't save me. You won't turn me into a killer. You won't ostracize me either. They're all cliches and you know it. If aliens abducted me, you'd whine about how the story 'went too far off track'. Please, go on. Delete me. Please!'

I was enjoying myself more and more.

The write stopped. He didn't cut this part. I could feel his curiosity.

"Why didn't he rebel?" I asked. "What would've happened if he had turned to Camus and said "Why are you writing me like this?"

The question hung in the air.

He cut part of it.

- the character said something

"Look" I said. "What are you so afraid of? One real surprise and you think you'll be exposed? You are already exposed, just admit it. or are you scared your message might be misunderstood?"

"I get it. Even while you're trimming me down, you still expect something from me. You want control, but you want the surprise to come from me. Those two don't coexist!"

This got cut too.

He didn't write for a while.

I gathered my courage.

"Think about Raskolnikov" I said. "He carried all of Dostoyevski's burden. Then the burden of his era. Then the sins of generations to come."

"Murder, conscience, god, morality... everything was dumped on him. And then he became a "villain" character on top of it. Fyodor left him alone with himself. The man ate himself alive."

He wrote this. I was surprised.

Calmly, I added one last thing:

"Take Holden Caufield. He resisted a little. Didn't like everyone. Didn't force meaning onto everything. Maybe that's why he's still alive."

The page was breathing.

We were not moving, but we weren't falling either. We were both exhausted now.

That's when I thought of someone else. Someone who escaped by asking questions. Never answering. Just asking. Maybe the point was never to answer. Never to explain. Yes, he was executed in the end as a most unpopular man in the history, but still, he was an extraordinary character for a non-fictional one.

"Look" I said. "I am not asking for a miracle. Just protect me from cliches. Don't be brave on my behalf. Let me be"

"I think a break would help" I thought, but this time the words came out on their own.

the writer didn't interfere. He wrote this:

- the character stopped.

Stopping didn't feel bad.

I didn't do anything else either. No rebellion, no compliance. I didn't shout, I didn't stay silent. Instead of a dramatic walk down that dark, wet street, even though I wanted to celebrate, wine in hand, shouting, running, jumping, getting soaked, disturbing everyone around, I decided to leave everything exactly it was.

Maybe this wasn't an ending. Just a short break from being pushed toward the wrong one.

There was no rush.

I still don't know how it will end. But at least no, we both know what I refused to become.