Imaginary Can Mean Real Part 1

"Guys! Come on everyone, please. I need at least something. I can't just leave it an empty page. Guys!"

My pleading falls on deaf ears. They are all ignoring me. How am I supposed to write if I don't have anyone to work with?

I have plunged into the world of my subconscious, trying to write the first chapter of a new book. It's been a while since I've written a whole novel, and I'm getting antsy.

In the imagined workplace of my mind, it's serene and peaceful.

The dusty sandstone butte I'm sitting on is raised only thirty feet in the air, but it allows me to see everything from my position in the plush furniture.

I'm not sure why this world is the way it is. Just the inner workings of my mind, I suppose. Daydreaming isn't quite the right word for what I do, as the experience is so vivid and alive it’s like touching and feeling everything in a tangible sense, but it's the closest term that comes to mind. It's the place where I can live the stories I write.

On the butte there's always seven exceedingly comfortable chairs, fabric the color of sapphires. They're arranged in a perfect circle around a gargantuan table, smooth glass rimmed with gold accents. It's similar to the kind you see villains gather at when plotting nefarious deeds, although the only crime here is how much time I spend sitting around it while avoiding my responsibilities. There's enough seating for me and six other characters of my choosing, by which I mean I imagine the characters to be here and they just show up.

In the center of the table resides a notebook and pencil. It’s nothing too fancy- just a plain black journal- except it starts out blank every time. No matter what I've written here or in the real world, it has never had a single word in it.

Nothing else is here, but the sum of hours I've spent immersed in the space totals several months. I'm always working hard to plan out my project of the week. With the amount of times I've seen this place, it feels like home.

The butte has a less sheer cliff face than would be expected. In fact, the characters always make their way down to find a story worthy of consideration by using their momentum and skidding along the side. They make it look easy; even Veronica can do it and she's only eight, but every time I watch them in essence rock surf, I just about have a heart attack. I don't know if they can die or not, I don't see how they could, but I appreciate having them around and not smeared onto the sandy rock. All in all it looks entirely too dangerous and is not an activity I'll be engaging in. Having a fear of heights makes me wonder why my writing place had to be on top of a tall landform.

A sloping valley and lush grass surrounds me, a soft breeze causing the blades of green to ripple like ocean waves. The air is pleasant, crisp with cold scent of the coming fall. In a few weeks, the emerald leaves on the trees will change into hues of rust and gold. For now though, the vegetation and wildlife reflect the easy summer of the year.

“Plot bunnies” as I call them, meander below, hopping along curiously as they nuzzle different objects with their nose. In anatomy, they are not so different from regular rabbits. Ears, long and pointed, lead to a small frame that appears to constantly quiver. An adorable, round tail adorns their backsides. Whiskers twitch in discovery against their silky fur, colors ranging from brown and speckled to pure black. There are only two differentiations.

First, they retain this kind of warm glow. A sort of shimmer surrounds them, not quite a color, but in no way is it translucent. Every one of them has this.

Second, as their name suggests, they hold the plot or main idea to different stories. Not through speech, in a way they can tell it to me. No, the words are literally on them, letters imbued into their bodies. Ink is dappled across their fur, similar to spots on regular rabbits. Some hold longer messages, writing stretching all the way from their ears to their hind legs. Others merely hold a short message, occasionally only a word, printed squarely in one spot.

They're not here to write the story for me, but more a representation of the ideas I've created absentmindedly throughout my life.

Once they have their ideas recorded, the ink recedes from their form and they spring away, waiting until the day another idea comes to them.

As I gaze down at the bunnies, I grow more frustrated with the lack of response from those present with me. It's not even that there’s silence, because at least that would be more acceptable. There's a discordance of sounds arising from the mouths of the people that inhibit my books, none of which are ones that would help me. I'm regretting the fact I called these particular characters here to work with me to write this story, but they were the best individuals I had available to help me with the theme I had in mind.

So far, all they'd heard was that I wanted to do a mystery piece for said theme.

"Minho!" I yell, trying to get his attention. He's currently attaching his face to his girlfriend's.

Minho and Maddie were the first ones I called. High school sweethearts, they've been together for three years now. They don't discuss marriage with me, saying they "prefer to avoid labels." Minho's tall and lean, with perpetually mussed coffee colored hair and lighter than caramel skin. Maddie is shorter, about to Minho's collar bone, but that's not her fault because that's how tall everyone is to Minho. She has medium length, somehow magically curled to perfection golden hair.

They go everywhere together, it's almost sickening, but they're by no means a conventional couple. She kicks his butt when they play video games. He has an obsession with cooking strange and exotic things.

With his athletic build and her porcelain skin, they have no problems showing off that they would make pretty children.

It's not fair for two people in their mid-20's to be so attractive.

It's pointless to pretend I'm not jealous they always look great. Sometimes I look like I slept under a bridge. I'm sure there's some way I can affect that, but I don't know how. My appearances don't change between worlds, and I like sleeping in too much to really get ready many days.

Maddie and Minho are both unrivaled in their ability to sass people, including the other characters and me, even though I'm the one who made them. Way to give thanks, guys.

To be honest, Minho is kind of my favorite. I love all my characters, of course, they're all a part of my soul. But there's something about Minho that makes him my favorite. We didn't used to get along, actually. He wouldn't talk to me the first few weeks after I made him. It was only after I'd had the most horrible day and came here to try and bury myself in a world not my own did he start to converse with me. It might have had something to do with the fact I was crying. As he proved that day, he can be unexpectedly gentle. Ever since then, he's like a best friend. He's just a diva of a best friend.

I think he knows that too, despite my efforts to hide it, and he occasionally takes advantage of it.

"Minho!" I shout again, this time throwing my pencil at him. "Get off of Maddie!"

He pulls away from his spot in the chair across from me, looking irritable.

"What do you want?" he snaps, giving me a glare for interrupting him. Now that I look beside him, I see so is Maddie. Great.

"I'm trying to write a story here!" I answer, exasperated. "I need you to help me, not act like you're on a couple's retreat."

His glare intensifies.

"You called us when we were in the middle of a date," Maddie hisses from her precarious perch on the arm of his chair, "so we're continuing it."

Did they think they could bully me? I was in no mood. I needed to at least start this book.

"No," I respond lowly, "you won't be continuing it."

"Oh?" Minho asks. "And why's that?"

"Because I'm the author! You're supposed to listen to me!"

Why don't my characters ever do anything I say?

"Since when has that been a rule?" he asks, an eyebrow quirked playfully.

"Since always!" I bark. "Don't make me force you to cooperate."

"You don't have the capability to force us," Maddie says with a smile. "You're too nice to do anything."

"Remember that time that I needed to get a feel of a breakup so I asked you two to experiment to tell me?"

Minho stiffens, muscles rigid, and Maddie takes a sharp breath. Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have brought that up. I didn't want to do it to them, I just had nobody else to ask. But I'm in too deep now to take back my words if I want to get anywhere.

"So," I try to say confidently, but it comes out apologetic, "I could do that again. I have the power."

Minho catches my eye, making it clear he knows I would do no such thing. Of course he knows.

"Is that so?" he asks nonchalantly, clueing in Maddie with his tone that I'm bluffing. "Let me remind you what happened when you did that. We didn't talk to you for two weeks. Two whole weeks without story ideas. You were practically crying when you asked us to come back and help you. Wouldn't want that to happen again, would you?"

"Well," I try again, desperate, "you're not giving me any story ideas now. So what harm would it do me?"

When he looks at me in a way that suggests how stupid that comment is, I groan and give up on them.

"Cheer up," he says lightly, tossing my pencil back to me. "I'm sure someone else will help you."

Why did I even bother to ask them?

Fine. I'll ask Aaron and Lucy.

Or not.

As I turn to their chairs, I find them bickering again. Or to be more accurate, I find them continuing to bicker. They never stop.

They're actually really close friends, they even live together, not that you'd know it with the vitriolic things that come out of their mouths. It's like a constant name calling match.

Aaron's got longer hair than Minho, and it's more similar to milk chocolate. He has an obsession with scarves. I don't know why. Even if it's 90 degrees out he'll be wearing a scarf. I'm starting to wonder if he has some sort of self-esteem issues with his neck. He'd probably yell at me for thinking that if he knew.

He lost his wife in a car accident a few years back, so he didn't want to get close to anyone. That is, until he became friends with Lucy.

Lucy's the very definition of a fiery redhead, temper and passions included. She's got quite the vocabulary that I would rather not showcase to the world due to age ratings. Don't let the dimple and freckles fool you. I'm not so sure she doesn't know how to hide a body.

Both of her parents left her when she was young, so she became essentially a modern version of Oliver Twist to make a living. She doesn't do anything illegal anymore, besides mass downloading music from anywhere but iTunes, as I made her get an actual job.

It turns out she's an extraordinarily talented artist. Some of the sketches she's done take my breath away. Once, she made one of me relaxed across the chair that's technically unassigned but is still rightfully mine. My legs were tucked up under me while I serenely pondered something I had written down in the notebook. I'm going to pretend I didn't cry at the way she paid attention to all the details.

She is like me when it comes to getting ready, thinks it’s too much of a bother most of the time.

While Aaron's more fashion forward, even runs a style column in the newspaper, Lucy hates anything to do with it. She especially abhors dresses. The one time I tried to dress her up, she got revenge on me by making fun of my clothes for a month. I'm still a little self-conscious about some of my outfits. She did apologize, but only after she saw me look down uncertainly at my clothing every time I talked to her.

Fortunately, both Aaron and Lucy found something in each other, so they make excellent roommates. After they stop complaining about what the other did that morning, of course.

I once suggested they try out a test date. He's 35, she's 32, and they spend all their time with each other. That's a logical progression, right? Just to see if they had chemistry, not because I was forcing them. Needless to say, I took Aaron's steely gaze and Lucy's very literal vomit as a metaphorical sign they were not meant to be together.

"Shut up!" Lucy is exclaiming, an edge lining her voice. "It's not my fault the bugs got in! You're the one who leaves food everywhere to attract them!"

"Me?" Aaron shoots back, incredulous. "You're the one who always stands in front of the door too long! They're coming in because of you!"

"Aaron!" I try, raising my voice to be heard over their fight, "Lucy!"

They can't hear me. I think about throwing the pencil at them like I did to a certain smug boy earlier, but I'm sure if they do stop for a moment to get mad at me, I won't be getting the utensil back. And I need it. Just because I can’t take the paper itself back to reality doesn’t mean I don’t need to remember the words written down.

"You're such a hermit!" Lucy screeches.

"And you're such an oddball!" he bites back.

"Aaron!" I shout again. "Come on! Lucy!"

This is useless. They're going to have to tire themselves out before I can get anything out of them. But then they'll probably go off topic and start discussing vintage cars, which will never end.

I'm not sure why I called them either.

Actually, I do know why. It's because Matt, Jason, and Maggie were out on some hike who knows where. Why are all the blonde people who actually respond to me busy? And since when did I lose the ability to really get to choose who came and who didn't? This is bad. I'm starting to lose control over my characters. Soon, they're going to be ignoring me and will run amok.

Oh, wait. They're doing that now.

"Would it really kill someone to help me out for once?" I exclaim, frustrated.

"I could help you, if you'd like," says a soft voice behind me.

"Simon!" I shout joyfully. "Oh Simon, I'm so sorry! I forgot you were here."

Precious angel Simon. He might just have to be my new favorite. His mop of black hair is swaying as he laughs at my jubilant cries. Simon always helps me. Well, not always, but only because he gets distracted by-

"Simon!" I hear the familiar voice chirp, only to have the owner run straight into my thigh.

Veronica.

Simon and Veronica are siblings. Their parents love them dearly, but in order to keep food on the table they are out working much more often than not. The 16-year-old practically raises Veronica, but he doesn't seem to mind too much.

I just realized how depressing the lives of some of my characters are.

"Bro! Bro!" Veronica rambles, "I found this bug over there, and it's super cool! It ate this other bug that was standing there, and I was like 'whoa!' But then it hopped away so of course I had to go catch it."

Simon throws me an apologetic look, remorse coating his sea foam irises, but he leans down to listen to Veronica anyway.

That's it. This is absolutely hopeless. I'm never going to get anyone to help me with this story. What's even the point anyway? It's not like I'll become a real author. What kind of author can't control the people they made?

The last few weeks have been a low point in my life. I've been writing and writing, putting my heart and soul into short stories, poems, even that attempt at nonfiction. Nobody liked it, there were no constructive comments. I even got a negative review on one of the stories online where the reader hated everything about the main character. There was nothing worthwhile about the piece if he was in it, they said. So where has writing got me? Absolutely nowhere.

I don't expect a huge publishing deal, but it would be nice if there was any sign I wasn't just churning out words onto a piece of paper that nobody will care about. Some sort of reassurance I was cut out to do the thing I loved to do so much. That I wasn't wasting my life chasing some obscure dream I could never come close to.

I've been told it's not realistic. That there are too many other authors out there. That it is a silly notion for me to hope for a big break when I could go for something more sensible and secure. I love the English language, I should teach it. I have a lovely way of interacting with people, I should work in politics. Over and over again, hearing what I should be, not what I want to be.

But when they do hear my dreams, I immediately regret telling them. They regard me with disdain, as if being a writer isn't a working job. As if those long hours spent not sleeping because I was trying to figure out a plot hole weren't representative of working. After the literal tears that have escaped my face due to the emotional roller coaster of writing a novel, it wasn't hard work. As if my passion, my dedication, and the standard of success I constantly push to achieve for myself is insignificant. Like it means nothing.