Taylor is a girl who writes for a living. The words just come to her. Lately, the words have told tales about a magical world where all her heroes die. One day, after another dies, two people from her stories' world come into the real world. They tell her horrible stories about the world she created: are they really true? Could she be the only one to save their world?
“Never mind,” I whispered into the wind. I softly put down my pen and laid my head on my crossed arms. Nothing was going my way in this story. If I’d had my way she would’ve ended up with the guy. And all would be happy. Yay for happy endings! But things didn’t often go my way anymore.
I’m a writer. Yep, that’s me. You might’ve read some of my books. The teenage cliché books. I know, I know and I hated cliche anything, too. But, somehow I couldn’t help taking some pathetic girl and giving her a happy ending. However, one day happy endings just stopped coming to me. I could see them, shining brightly in the sunset, but they didn’t make their way onto the paper very often.
You see, when I wrote I didn’t control the story. I was more of a super-highway for the story’s words to go onto the paper. I thought of things that could happen but often the story would end up entirely different. I was as surprised as anyone. It’s what happened for all my stories and, until recently, I didn’t mind.
Then they came.
I started writing these stories that I dubbed The Chronicles of the Perian. Everything was fine at first: Peria was a land filled with all sorts of mythical creatures and beings. It was like a heaven for me. All of my main characters were elves and I was dipping my feet into the forbidden waters of fantasy with a fervor.
Or course, it couldn't last.
All of a sudden, my main character was met with a horribly bloody end. The evil won. I actually cried. And then, just totally out of the blue, I got the inspiration for another story. Right immediately after. It was in the same land and against the same villain just a different story and person. Then, they died, too.
This cycle kept repeating itself. I'd get inspiration, let the story tell itself, the character would die, and then it would repeat. I tried giving up writing and just ignoring the ideas that haunted me day and night. However, that didn't work either. I got sick and nauseous and weak. I couldn't get up from my bed until I took my laptop and wrote the latest tale. All of sudden, I was better. Like magic.
You know, I had been really hopeful about the most recent one. She was smart and kind and everything a normal hero should be. And she was so close.
I closed my laptop and ignored the haunting ghosts that whirled around me: the ghosts of all my dead characters. They shoved new names and new stories at me but I shook my head as I walked inside.
I was going to write again, I knew that I'd have to eventually, but I needed some time to myself. To recuperate from the latest death.