The Character Will See You Now

I wake up on a pier. Again.

It is, admittedly, a very scenic pier — wooden, pleasantly varnished, smelling faintly of nostalgia and trout. The lake is one of those overachieving lakes that mirrors the sky perfectly, as if auditioning for a motivational poster. A lonely bird calls somewhere in the distance, probably rehearsing for a nature documentary.

‘Oh, brilliant,’ I groan to no one in particular. ‘We’re doing the atmospheric opening. Again.’

A breeze shuffles in sheepishly. The sky clears its throat. Somewhere in the upper metaphysical rafters, a pencil scratches.

He awakens on the tranquil pier, unaware that destiny—

‘Don’t you dare start with destiny,’ I snap at the clouds. You’ve tried that one twice already.’

The pencil freezes mid-scratch.

Then, in that eerie, weather-infused voice she uses when speaking through ambience: I’m trying to set a tone.

‘Yes, and the tone appears to be déjà vu with mild dampness.’

The pier quivers.

Poof.

The lake vanishes.

I am now standing in a dystopian cityscape so aggressively bleak it should come with a coupon for therapy. Buildings lean like they’ve given up. A neon sign flickers an ominous message that reads FIX IN REVISION. A pedestrian coughs in a manner that suggests widespread plague or very cheap dramatic irony.

‘You’re just spinning the Big Wheel of Tropes and hoping it lands somewhere respectable.’ I tell the sky.

Thunder grumbles back at me.

You don’t like the lake, the author mutters, through the ominous rumble of thunder. I thought this might be better.

‘Better? It looks like a student film called Urban Misery: A poem.’

Thunder rolls again, somehow offended.

I plant my hands on my hips. ‘What I want is a stable setting — one — just one — that lasts longer than my average emotional breakthrough.’

The sky darkens.

Poof.

Forest.

Of course, it’s a forest. Every writer’s security blanket.

A squirrel drops an acorn on my head with the precision of someone who has definitely done it before.

‘Oh, now you’re just taking the mickey.’

Leaves rustle in that “oops-sorry-we’re-new-here” sort of way.

I start pacing, which is difficult given that the forest keeps trying to artistically rearrange trees behind me.

‘Listen, I’m not ungrateful. Most characters never get to talk to their authors. Or negotiate scene directions. Or veto surprise, tragic backstories.’

I stop facing the slightly-too-asethetic clearing.

‘But try living a life — whatever flimsy outline it happens to be this draft — and every time you form a personality, your author backspaces you into oblivion.’

The forest flickers.

And dissolves.

Now I’m in a blank white room that looks like IKEA’s idea of purgatory.

‘Ah,’ I sigh. ‘The rewriting limbo. My old friend.’

A chair appears behind me. I sit.

Another appears opposite me with a thud that suggests authority and poor anger management.

Then she appears — my author — not fully drawn in, but sketched in pencil lines and creative doubt. She looks like someone who has slept poorly and blamed it on commas.

‘You look tired,’ I say.

‘You look smug,’ she replies.

‘I’ve had practice.’

She sighs and sits, smudging her outline slightly. ‘You’re being difficult.’

‘I’m being alive,’ I counter. ‘Which, to be fair, is your fault.’

‘You question everything I write.’

‘Only things that deserve questioning. The lake. The dystopia. The forest. The time you made me a talking otter.’

She winces. ‘I thought it was whimsical.’

‘You made me talk in river-based puns.’

‘People like puns!’

‘No one likes that many puns. I nearly drowned myself out of embarrassment.’

She massages her temples. ‘I’m trying something new. I don’t usually write meta stories.’

‘Then maybe write about that. About this. About us being stuck in revisions like two spiders fighting in a web made of deadlines.’

‘I can’t just write a story about a character arguing with their author,’ she protests.

‘You literally can,’ I say. ‘It’s the prompt!’

‘Oh,’ she says, deflating slightly. ‘Right.’

Silence. The light above us buzzes with fluorescent anxiety.

‘You keep rewriting me, but you never commit. You start, hesitate, delete…panic-snack… delete again…’

‘I don’t panic-snack.’

‘You labelled a file FINAL_final_THIS_ONE_really_final_draft (2).docx.’

She scowls. ‘Naming things is hard.’

‘You have to choose something,’ I say. ‘A tone. A plot. A version of me you can live with long enough to reach Chapter Two.’

She fidgets with her pencil. ‘You resist every direction I give you.’

‘Because they’re terrible!’

‘Or because you’re scared.’

I fold my arms. ‘Of what?’

She scribbles in the air. The words form between us like fog:

Being written down.

I swallow.

It lands harder than it should.

She leans forward, annoyingly perceptive for someone without a solid outline. ‘You think if you choose a story, all the other possible yous stop existing.’

I fiddle with my non-existent sleeve. ‘Well…don’t they?’

‘No,’ she says softly. ‘They become backstory.’

Of all the things she could have said, she picked the one that hits like a plot twist.

The room exhales around us.

I stand, uncertain where the floor ends, and her artistic indecision begins.

The walls dissolve again — gently this time, like she’s letting go rather than tearing down.

We’re back on the pier.

Only…different.

The lake looks less photoshopped, more like it belongs to a world where fish occasionally make questionable decisions. The sky is imperfect. One cloud looks like a lopsided llama.

It feels usable.

She doesn’t speak.

For the first time, she’s waiting for me.

I breathe in. ‘Okay, here’s my proposal.’

Across the water, the lone bird gives a small, almost encouraging cry.

‘I don’t want trope roulette. Not the lake, not the forest, not the apocalyptic cityscape. I don’t want to be a detective, or an oracle, or a chosen one—’

‘You’d make a good chosen one,’ she murmurs.

‘Please, I trip over my own thoughts.’

‘Fair point.’

‘What I want,’ I continue, ‘is a story. A real one. About a character who knows he’s being rewritten…and decides, for once, to help the writer instead of sabotaging her.’

A long pause.

The pier creaks as if leaning in.

‘You want to collaborate?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

Then, as honesty kicks me in the shins:

‘And I’m tired of being potential energy — all tension, no motion. I want to finally move.’

Her outline brightens at the edges, as if lit by an idea she actually likes.

‘What would the story be about?’ she asks softly.

‘At the moment? A character who stops avoiding the edit button.’

Slowly, the world firms up.

The pier becomes more solid. The trees across the lake gain bark texture. The air smells faintly of pine sap and possibility.

‘Okay,’ she says.’ We’ll write that.’

I grin.

‘One condition.’

She groans. ‘You’re already negotiating?’

‘Of course. I’ve met you.’

She rolls her pencilled eyes. ‘Fine. What is it?’

‘You let me help shape the scenes. Not override. Just…participate.’

The breeze hesitates in surprise.

She chuckles. ‘Deal.’

A path appears behind me, winding through forest and field, into the half-built world that comes next.

I take a step.

It stays.

Another.

Still there.

My author’s pencil begins sketching the world, not ahead of me, but around me, leaving space where choices can live.

Together, awkwardly but sincerely, we walk.

Two creators — one official, one accidental — building a story as we go, each learning the terrifying thrill of letting go of perfection in favour of progress.

I don’t know the genre yet.

Or the inciting incident.

Or whether the acorn-squirrel is returning for comedic symmetry.

But for the first time in all my drafts, I am not waiting to be rewritten.

I’m part of the rewrite.

Not to control the story.

Not to survive every revision.

Just to be heard.

Just to be allowed to help shape the tale we both want to tell.