How the Story Goes

I sit at my desk, staring at my computer. Sweat beads on my brow. My hands tremble. On the screen is the last story I wrote about Detective John Harden, a character I created.

That’s important because he’s standing behind me, a gun in his hand.

“Go on,” he says, his deep, gravelly voice low and compelling. “Do it.”

I lick my lips, swallow. Surprisingly, being held at gunpoint isn’t conducive to my creative flow. “I’m not sure how…”

“Try.” He grates out the word past clenched teeth.

I am trying. Hard. “Look, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know—”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not.” His free hand rubs at his face. His skin is pale, dark circles stand out under his eyes, and his hair is mussed and matted. He’s literally a caricature of a cop on the edge. “I just want you to give me what I deserve.”

What he deserves. A happy ending. I’d like to sympathize with him; I have a habit of ending my stories in a grim fashion. I think it makes things more interesting for the reader, keeps them hooked. Nobody identifies with a protagonist who always gets a happy ending.

“I’m not hearing any clacking keys here,” Harden says, his tone menacing.

I draw in a tremulous breath. “I had no idea that what I was writing was, well, real for you. But the ending has to fit with the rest of the narrative. That’s just the way the story goes.”

“Do I look like I care? You’re the writer, not me. So change whatever you have to.”

I get the strong sense that this isn’t going to end well for me. Then again, things rarely do.

I’m not what you’d call a successful writer. I’ve sold a few pieces, won a few contests. But rejections far, far outweigh acceptances, and I’ve been forced to the realization that I probably won’t ever make it big. It’s a sobering thing to accept, but there it is.

Now I just hope I get the chance to go on breathing.

This is not how I thought my day would go…

*

I’m sitting at my desk, computer in front of me. I told myself that I was going to write at least a thousand words today. But I had to check my email first, and I saw a bill payment was due, and then I remembered that I needed to order some stuff…

Next thing I know there there’s a knock at the door, and I glance at the time to see that most of the morning has gone by while I debated which novelty mug I want to buy.

I don’t get up or anything, figuring that it’s just a delivery and they’ll leave it on the doorstep.

But then the knock comes again.

Frowning, I push myself to my feet. If it’s not a delivery person, it’s most likely some salesmen or petitioner, come to waste my time. I glance back at my computer. Hmmm… I should check.

I open the door, to see a man standing there, clad in a faded gray trench coat, hands shoved into his pockets and a scowl on his face.

“Yes?” I say. I get the vague sense I know this guy from somewhere. At the same time, he makes me uneasy. The way he stands there, like he’s here for something, and he’s not leaving until he gets it.

“You Will Benson?” he asks without preamble.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s talk inside.”

Hmmm. I’m pretty sure I don’t want this guy in my house.

He clearly senses this. One hand slips out of his pocket, pulls the coat aside… just far enough for me to see the pistol holstered at his waist. “That wasn’t a suggestion, in case you’re wondering.”

My mouth drops open. My fight-or-flight instinct skips to flight and I take a stumbling step backwards. He takes this as obedience on my part, and steps through the doorway, closing the door behind him and shooting the bolt.

“Let’s have a little chat, Will,” he says.

He advances, driving me back until my legs hit my chair, where I collapse with a grunt.

The man looks around the space, chewing on the inside of one cheek. His expression says it all: he expected more. I feel a flash of defensiveness. Yes, my house is small, and the “living room” we’re in does triple duty as office, study, and relaxation space. Sure, it’s dominated by a sofa and a large entertainment center, with a big-screen smart TV. Yes, my workspace is a small desk with a laptop, shoved into one corner. I mean, I’m barely making ends meet, and that’s with a part-time job.

But he does still have that gun, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Okay, this is how this is gonna go,” the stranger says. “I’m gonna tell you the problem, and you’re gonna fix it. Got it?”

“Umm,” is the only reply I can make.

His gaze goes to my bookcase, and the shelf I devote to my handful of published works. “See, Mr. Bigshot Writer, you have a bad habit.” He walks to the shelf and pulls out a book, holds it out to me. “Can you guess what it is?”

Looking at that book, it suddenly clicks. I know why I recognize this guy.

He’s a character I’ve written.

A hard-boiled detective, star of my earliest works, a short series of noir crime thrillers that had some success, until I got tired of them and decided to try something else. What was his name? Harden. John Harden, that’s it.

And now he’s standing in my living room. Talking to me.

I realize he asked me a question. “Uh, no…?”

His eyes narrow. “You should. It’s something you did to me. It’s something you do to all your characters. It’s about happy endings, Will, and how we never get them.”

“Happy endings?” This can’t be what it seems. “Look, maybe you’re a big fan and I appreciate that, but you’ve taken things a bit too far. You really shouldn’t have come here, forced your way into my house, but if you leave now—”

“Can it, Will,” Harden snaps. “I’m not some simpering groupie here to score an autograph or cosplay my favorite scene. I’m here to enlighten you to your biggest failing as a writer: you don’t understand the consequences.”

“Consequences? What consequences? I write fiction. I make everything up.”

He’s shaking his head before I finish speaking. “Just shut up and listen. See, you only think you’re making things up. But they’re out there. Whenever you write something, it comes into existence. Not here, not in your world. But somewhere. It’s like you create an entire new reality with each work you write.”

“I create worlds with my writing?” Gun or no gun, I’m having trouble taking this guy seriously. “Okay. Um, are you on any medications?”

Harden’s face darkens further, like a thunderhead blotting out the sun. “Don’t believe me?” He opens the book he still holds, flipping to a certain page. Then he grabs my collar. “Let’s take a little trip, shall we?”

Before I can so much as yelp, he hauls me to my feet. With me still pinioned in his grip, he starts to read.

“The bust had gone about as bad as it could go. The air still stank of cordite and blood and worse. I could still hear the gunshots, echoing off the walls. And I could still see my partner, dropping to the floor as he took three rounds from the shooter I didn’t see until it was too late.”

I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing, but then everything goes dark. When I can see again, I’m somewhere else, standing in a blind alley, brick walls towering above me, narrowing to a strip of dark sky overhead. It’s cold and damp, and, just like he read it, I can smell the aftereffects of a violent gunfight. On the ground in front of me is a chalk outline, smeared with streaks of blood.

This is the climactic scene, from my first published book. The one that made me think I had a chance. The one in which Harden’s partner of ten years gets shot to death in a dramatic twist that perfectly subverts the readers’ expectations.

I glance at Harden. His jaw is working as he stares down at the stained pavement.

“You see?” he grates out. “This is what you do to the characters you write. You make your stories, you put in all these tricks, and we’re the ones who suffer.”

It’s a lot to take in. I can’t explain how we ended up here. I have no idea if everything he’s telling me is true. Maybe I’m back in my home, having some sort of stroke or psychotic episode. But this all feels too real, even though it’s still all make believe.

“Okay, um, I’m sorry I killed off your partner,” I say. “But, like you said, it’s a work of fiction. Your partner wasn’t real.”

His head snaps toward me. “Not real? We came up through the academy together, got our gold shields together. He married my sister. I had to tell her how he died, how it was my fault. She hasn’t spoken to me since. But he wasn’t real? None of this is real?” He gives his head an angry shake. “Trust me, pal, it’s real enough to the characters you write.”

“But none of this is real to me!” I say, spreading my arms. “It’s just something I made up!”

Harden glares at me for a minute. Abruptly, we’re back in my living room. I barely have a chance to take a relieved breath before he snaps the book shut, tosses it aside. He goes back to the shelf and pulls down the next book.

I open my mouth to object. I don’t want to take another strange trip down memory lane.

But before I can get the words out, he starts to read. “I was too late. The story of my sad life. When I finally pieced all the clues together, I took off like my life depended on it. But by the time I arrived, to confront the mastermind behind so many deaths, he had already claimed one last victim. I stood in the rain, watching as the building burned. The screams had finally stopped, and all I could do was listen to them playing repeatedly in my mind.”

Once again, I find myself taken out of my comfortable little house. I’m standing on a sidewalk, across from a building on fire. Rain drizzles down, doing nothing to help quench the blaze. Smoke fills the air, along with a terrible smell I’ve only ever heard described. Police and paramedics and firemen race around, trying to control the fire and keep it from spreading. Nearby, a couple stands, clutching each other, staring at the flames in tearful horror.

I know why: their little girl is in there.

“That’s right,” Harden says from beside me. “You held back the most crucial piece of information until it was too late. He knew I would catch him, rescue the girl. Your readers thought they knew it, too. So you came up with this downer of an ending, just for the shock factor. No happy ending. Not for any of us.”

I look down, unable to meet his gaze. For me, it’s always been about what seemed to flow, what I thought my readers would want. I never cared about how my characters would feel. They’re just tools to me. Something to be used to make a good story. Now I’m facing consequences I never imagined. It’s sobering.

“Still don’t think happy endings fit your stories?” Harden asks.

“It’s not that simple,” I reply. “The story has to make sense. There have to be surprises, twists. It has to flow to a reasonable conclusion.” I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

Harden is silent. The scene fades out, and we’re back in my living room. Without a word, the detective walks back to the bookcase. He selects the last book on the shelf with deliberate motions, cracks it open, and reads the end.

“Harden stood by the bedside of the only woman he’d ever loved, listening to the monotonous tone coming from the machines, staring at the still, pale features of her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, tears of frustration in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I brought this on you.’ She had died because of him, killed in a twisted act of revenge by someone he hadn’t realized was his enemy. He could have stopped it, kept her safe… or better yet never entered her life. But he had failed at every turn.”

And we’re there, standing at the bedside. The monitors show a flat line, no pulse, no breathing. Blossoms of red stain the sheet covering the body. I can even smell the blood, mixed with all the usual chemical scents of a hospital. There’s a chill in the air that has nothing to do with the temperature.

I sneak a glance at Harden; it’s a shock to see the tears trickling down his face. I thought I wrote him to be more stoic. Then again, I’ve never faced a loss like this. I don’t understand how hard it can hit even the toughest person. It’s been more important to me to create drama, suspense, shocking twists that leave the reader breathless and stunned.

But is that the real reason?

“So,” Harden says, heaving a tired sigh. “Can you tell me why I had to have this ending? Why she did? What did we do to deserve this?”

I swallow, clear my throat, try to speak. Words don’t come.

“Is this really about us?” There’s a note of suspicion in the detective’s voice. “Or is it about you?”

“What?”

“I’ve seen your life,” Harden says. “And I’ve gotta admit, it’s pretty sad. You live alone. You’re not a success. Your work, your passion, tucked into a corner, out of the way. Maybe if you put the same effort into your writing that you do avoiding it, your writing would better. And if your characters got their happy endings, it’d be more… uplifting for you.”

I pause, lick my lips. “But… but that’s just not the way the story goes…” Yeah, the words sound feeble even to me.

Harden’s features twist in rage. Suddenly, his gun is in his hand, and we’re once again standing in my house. “That so?” Harden rasps. “Well, let’s try a different writing exercise, shall we?”

*

“Come on, Will. Make that magic happen.”

Still nothing comes to me. My mind is blank. “I… I can’t think very well with a gun to my head.”

“It’s not pointing at your head. Yet.”

I wince. “How did you even get here? I mean, how did you figure all this out?”

Harden gives an ugly chuckle. “After all the misery you put me through, I started asking question, trying to figure out the meaning of life and all that. Turns out everyone I spoke to had a similar outlook. And you know the one thing we all had in common? We were all written by you. So I set out to meet my maker, so to speak.”

“But how you did you get to this… reality?” At this point, I’m not sure if I’m stalling or genuinely curious.

“I took a page from your book.” Harden fishes in one pocket, pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, tosses it on the desk. “I wrote myself into your world.”

I take the paper, smooth it out, and read. “I didn’t make detective by being stupid. I knew when someone was pulling my strings, and I wasn’t going to be anyone’s puppet anymore. I’d do what no one had done before, I’d write myself into his world, and just maybe, I’d get the ending I felt I deserved.”

That’s incredible, but no more so than any of the rest of this. “If you wrote this,” I say, “then why can’t you write your own ending? Why do you need me?”

“Because that’s the way the story goes, Will,” Harden says, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I can slip between the words, but I need you to make the big changes. Believe me, I wish there was some other way. But I have no idea how this works; I don’t know if every writer makes entire worlds with his writing or if it’s just you. So, I need you to fix this.” He gestures with the gun. “Right now.”

It comes down to this. I have to rewrite everything I’ve ever written so my characters can enjoy a happily ever after. But what will that do to my career? Sure, it isn’t going great, but what if I alienate my few fans? What if doing this means I’ll never sell another book?

I look around me, at this small room in this small house, at the sad little corner where I wield my craft. What if this actually makes things better?

I guess I’m saying that I shouldn’t be so afraid of what might happen, that I’m unwilling to try something different. Maybe my writing should reflect my hopes, my dreams, instead of my reality.

I place my hands on the keys.

“When Detective John Harden showed up on my doorstep, a desperate man in search of a happy ending to his story, I didn’t know what to do. But after he showed me the consequences of what I had written, I knew a change was needed. I would revise my written works, and give my characters the happy endings they deserved. And if that’s not how the story goes, well, I’ll make the story go a different way…”