IV: "Let it go, let it go - can't write this thing anymore...let it go, na jedno, turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they're goin' to say, let the storm rage on...new goals never bothered me anyway."

The Anxious One is currently livid with the Researcher. Here I (the Writer) will record both sides' arguments without bothering to intersperse it as dialogue. They have pretty much repeated themselves steadily, nonstop, for the past week or so. It will be much more coherent ("And efficient!" piped in the Researcher) to present them this way:

The Anxious One:
"This is a really, really stupid plan. As if we don't have enough projects to do already. As if this project is among any that are actually worth doing. And don't we always tend to do this exact same thing - make a big, fat list of all kinds of interesting, worthwhile projects, and because the important ones are also usually the hardest, we just put them off and settle for the easiest ones. Kind of like some kind of debt-snowball, except instead of with money, with future time and future effort. Why should we settle? We always claim to want to do great things - why not go after the great things? Is it just some stupid self-defeating way of proving our worthlessness? This project of writing a novel about some fantasy world - but trying to pull it off as a realistic world - it's just...we don't have enough information - I will concede with you on that point - but the fact is, there is a massive amount of opportunity cost involved in acquiring the requisite information. Anyway, we all know that the real project, the one that is actually fun, engaging, interesting - somewhat worthwhile - is this one, the meta novel - the novel about writing a novel. This Mirrors of Self blog, which is meant to show some kind of glimpse inside our head, to give some kind of respite - to find a place to throw words that won't be such a terrible burden for people we actually care about. Does it matter what we write about? I guess it sort of does - but like, why does this project have to be about a dreadful, awful, pathetic book that nobody is going to want to actually read? One that we can't even finish, especially because we can barely start it! What about the raciness of the first chapter, anyway? It didn't work. Like, at all. I know you're going to argue that it's really necessary to grab the reader in the beginning - but it just totally failed. I mean, it made your sister laugh. It wasn't supposed to make anybody laugh. We really should just give up. No, no - this is not a coup - I know that you think all that I want to do is squash everybody into submissive fear and misery, but I actually am capable of reason, too. I know that Kate isn't happy when I'm behind the steering wheel - I know that you'd all be better off without me, just as I know that no matter what we may try, I'm pretty much part of the whole package deal - I know that most of my suggestions are terrible, crappy, negative, and not worth paying the slightest attention to - but the fact is, that in this case, I happen to actually be right. If I focus all of my efforts on imagining what is best for Kate, which I will admit, is difficult for me to do - I can see that this project is CATEGORICALLY STUPID. It will take too much energy - out of me, especially, yes, but really, out of YOU, Ms. Researcher! And that's to do it right; if you do your research wrong you'll be miserable. I guess I would be, too. Maybe the others wouldn't care so much - the Writer can just word-vomit her way to happiness (I had to include that - but for the record, it's not true!), the Philosopher doesn't care so long as there's a current rant going on - and the others are pretty weak and submissive most of the time (I also had to include that; also not true). But you already know how merciless a taskmaster you are and how negative and whiny I am when you're not happy. If we write a piece of crap novel, I am going to be sent into overdrive, and that will be bad for Kate's mental health. Isn't the entire point of this project is to somehow get her out of her self - somehow to get her into some kind of distracting project that results in what we have, for some unfathomable reason, determined to be the Ultimate Measure of Virtue - the writing of a physical book that Kate can someday hold in her hands and share with the world? If that's the point, if that's the honest point, then we really need to rethink the entire plan!"

The Researcher:
"This is a logical plan. We have to find something to do with all this extra energy, something that has absolutely nothing to do with any of the other projects on the table makes logical sense for a safe place to escape. There is literally no world (no plausible world) more different - more remotely distant - than post-Plague Medieval Europe, within the psyche of a rags-to-riches widowed virgin girl. I know it is bothering you that there is no way to avoid the research aspect of this novel, and am sorry for your sake that I am this way, but the truth of the matter is that if we are going to write anything even remotely resembling historical fiction, it's going to necessarily involve some amount of research. It would be an enormous failure to write about the medieval world if we didn't even at least try know about it. And the devil is in the details - of course we aren't going to be perfect, but we can at least try to come to some sort of approximation of how things might have plausibly been. Perhaps we can disprove that stupid chauvinistic theory about women of the past being complete and utter doormats by exploring the power they did have. I am positive that our efforts to read about, learn about, study, and place ourselves in that world of the past will result in a much bigger payout than you seem to think. It could actually be a pretty solid novel, in the end, if done right. Kate spent a lot of time talking about it with Danny - several really fun evenings planning out and plotting out the entire novel, with all of its myriad plot twists. I really think this could be something, but it means we have to do it right. I have done lots of research on writing methods, the Reader and I have read all kinds of interesting theories about writing novels (among other kinds of writing) - I know we can do this. If we would just stick to the schedule, to the plan, then what could go wrong! It makes sense. It will work, but we just have to do it my way. Everybody else is on board. Let's do it."

The Anxious One's Rebuttal:
"Look. Everybody else is not on board, they just really don't want to hurt your feelings. Let's take a poll from the ones who are here."

The Researcher asked, "What's the question, exactly?"

"Assuming we are going to continue this ridiculous meta-novel, should it or should it not be about the current work in progress? Yes : continue as planned, No : find a new project."

The Writer: As long as we don't throw away what we've written, and as long as we continue to write, then I do not care. Abstain.

The Reader: [instantly replayed an image of Kate curled up by the fire under a blanket with a neon yellow highlighter, reading about Statistics in Corpus Linguistics.]. As the Writer, I interpret that to be a No. Since the Reader-cat is purring, it seems my guess was correct.

The Philosopher: "What we have here is a problem of prioritization. How we prioritize our projects wholly depends on why we value certain things more than others. Assuming we are out for the Greater Good of Kate herself, the collective whole including the part that involves living in a physical world, I think we should be looking for something that is more of a high-rewards, low-stakes project. The rewards will probably be measured in recognition - the more instantaneous, the better. I guess the stakes would be measured in how much additional time has to be spend researching. So, basically, no."

The Mystic: "I agree with the Philosopher this time. Less time at the computer is probably better for our health anyway. No."

Dorky McDorkface: "But! Medieval Europe! It's like, THE COOLEST THING! YES!"

The Student: "I want to focus more on Czech. And if not Czech, than corpus linguistics. And if not corpus linguistics, than something else. No."

The Teacher: "Hmm? I get a vote? I am pretty neutral. Abstain."

The Believer: "In Stake Conference last weekend there was a talk that literally warned us against closing up inside a shell of ourselves, ignoring the real world and the people around us who really need help. They talked about how we would be much happier if we avoided these things: pride, contention, fear, distraction. I am sure that this project falls under 'distraction.' We should give it up entirely and devote all of our free time to serving others. No."

The Maternal One: "Well, it'd be a good example of sticking to one's goals and pursuing a fun, academic pursuit. Those are valuable for our children to see. But I guess they wouldn't really see it much. I dunno. I think we could change the project slightly to make it be more in line with my goals. No."

The Sexy One: [Her chair was empty. While she is definitely alive and well, she doesn't hang out with us very often. When she does, she doesn't have a whole lot to say - at least, that is worth repeating. Abstain]

The Good Friend: "I have no strong opinions about this. Can I vote - neutral?" "You have to pick one or abstain," said the Researcher. "I guess...then I abstain?"

The Tragic Romantic: "GUYS! I know what project we can do next!"

"You have to vote first!" said the Anxious One. The Researcher scowled. "Actually, she doesn't. I've been outnumbered. Our novel about medieval Europe is out." 

I, the Writer, will just put it somewhere in the writing folder with all those other future writing projects. 

"Don't you want to know what it is?!" the Tragic Romantic squealed like an adolescent teenage girl. "Guys! GUYS! It's...it's..."

"Don't come right out and just say it," said the Anxious One sarcastically, rolling her eyes. Everybody could tell that she was actually in quite a good mood. It was difficult for her to win arguments with the Researcher. Meanwhile, the Researcher was looking a little bit sullen. It wouldn't last long, especially not with a new project.

"Poetry!" 

Everybody's ears perked up. Both the Researcher and the Anxious One groaned in unison.

"Well. I guess that is a perfect example of a low-stakes, high-rewards project!" said the Philosopher.

"I'll be relegated to the role of looking up words in a Thesaurus and a Rhyming Dictionary. That's...that's really...nice." The Researcher was not happy at all about this. Not enough meat in this project, perhaps.

"It's embarrassingly stupid, there is no value in poems, and who's gonna wanna read any of it? Nobody!" the Anxious One was scowling.

"Hey, come now. You can't use that as an excuse against both projects," I, the Writer, said. "I mean, nobody is going to read what we write anyway." 

The Good Friend said, "You guys have such little faith in your siblings and friends. Haven't you paid attention, like, at all to how much they like to read what you write? Sarah will read and illustrate your poems."

The Tragic Romantic was pacing back and forth. She was really excited now. "Guys! I made a list over the weekend about things we could write poems about!" 

The Good Friend said, "This would be an excellent project for you and your sister, you know. Give you something interesting to talk about that isn't...too...well..."

"...connected to the ongoing tragedy of daily life?" said the Tragic Romantic.

The Good Friend shrugged. "Something like that." 

The Researcher said, "You know, this isn't half a bad idea. I am pretty sure we could do this, and do it well. You pretty much are always scribbling ideas in your piles of notebooks, Tragic Romantic, and if we combine it with a little bit of thought-out craft..."

"It must rhyme. That's my only condition. Craft matters," said the Philosopher.

"We already have stacks and stacks of original poetry written from when we were a lot younger, you know," said the Writer. 

"Here are some of my ideas for a poetry anthology we could call 'Kate's Wrath'" 

"OOOH! It could be the Kates of Wrath! You know...like...the Grapes...of Wrath!" said Dorky McDorkface. Not very many of them listened to her (not that they ever did); instead they started thinking about how a Poetry Anthology would change things within the Mirrors of Self. 

Most of them were extremely satisfied with the new plan.

* * *

1. I don't know how to play the organ but was asked to do so anyway in church
2. They arranged the class so I couldn't teach it, but was expected to
3. The nasty, mean girls who didn't come to my birthday party when I was 12
4. My role, i.e. Weltschmerz
5. Being ghosted
6. Feelings of not being included in my family
7. Crafting vs. basketball
8. The Boring Bookclub
9. Ode to Laundry
10. When's it my turn?
11. I hate the city
12. Breasts suck ("hahaha that could have some really great wordplay!")
13. On buying a bra in America
14. Lingerie is...very silly ("Okay, let's get off of this theme here RIGHT NOW," said the Anxiou One)
15. Being a "Good girl"
16. I can't sleep
17. The guy I like is gay
18. NCMO
19. My husband is insensitive
20. Terseness
21. Editing a book
22. I'm never going to write a book
23. The Syrian war
24. Blog templates ("That is really, really insenstive juxtoposition between 23 and 24, you know." "I can't help being so flighty," said the Tragic Romantic)
25. My friends live over the sea
26. Geographically challenged friendships
27. Shared interests and distance and the relationship between the two
28. My husband makes fun of me constantly
29. The diaper pail in the mother's nursing lounge
30. Never getting emails back
31. Waiting for letters
32. The Greatest Showman
33. Jeremy
34. Sarah shoving my words in my face, making me eat them
35. Skipping a grade
36. Husband's magic computer touch, it's only broken when you're not here to fix it
37. Grouchiness about my calling
38. My invisible polygamous ancestors
39. Jealous of Yvette
40. "I'm sorry I have a y chromosome"
41. Postpartum body
42. Anxiety
43. Nobody will join my hypothetical book club
44. Planning mutual
45. Feedback
46. Computer Cave
47. Reverse iron curtain
48. Cultural appropriation
49. Facebook ("There could me a great many poems written about that one!")
50. Hatred faded, futility
51. standing too closely
52. Gamifying interpersonal relationships with Bingo Boards ("What's wrong with that?" asked Dorky McDorkface)
53. That cat image that really bothered me a lot
54. Lack of craft in art
55. Lack of art in craft
56. I pissed off the guided painter teacher
57. I painted the door when I was 16 as an act of non-violent protest.
58. Overwhelmed by my enthusiasm
59. My talents are a threat
60. How much money does your wife make, what does your wife "do"
61. Weak macho men
62. Feeling self centered
63. Birthdays are terrible
64. Worrying about my in-laws liking me
65. I gave birth to a baby and nobody even cared
66. Corpus linguistics to solve interpersonal relationships
67. Oh! You're not just a creation inside my head! What a relief!
68. Obscure interests
69. Paint me with my own #%$@ shoulders
70. I've never been to your work, my love
71. Remote control that never works
72. Are you mad at me
73. James Chippelo the Third
74. Unsourced drivel
75. Cheated on a test and I didn't need to
76. Crazy
77. Looking for something; can't find it
78. Ennui
79. Feeling like a slave to entropy
80. Single use plastic
81. I have to go to sleep
82. I have to wake up
83. I can't go to sleep
84. Misunderstood
85. Humiliation
86. When my husband feels helpless to help me

87. Visiting teacher insulting me
88. Feeding the baby
89. I have to go to a store. UGH
90. Missed calls
91. Unreplied to emails
92. Pity
93. Pity Friends
94. Psalms
95. The terrible toll of pregnancy
96. Losing all my interests
97. Stupid comments in Stake Conference
98. Scriptures were all written by men and how is that fair
99. My husband thinks my concerns are petty ("I guess the readers should know that list was compiled by both Kate and Danny on a very long car ride recently, and that this one was mostly his idea of a joke.)
100. Parents who don't listen
101. Self defeating secrets
102. Shame for my verboseness
103. Overdrafting occassionally
104. Very unlikely friendships
105. Invisible barriers
106. Backseat driving
107. Sisters don't ask my advice
108. Medicine that makes you sicker rather than better
109. Trump 2020 ("Oooh some kind of fun wordplay with hindsight being 20/20!")
110. I sometimes am cruel to sister missionaries because I ask them things they couldn't possibly know about the historical sites at which they always give tours
111. Shaving legs is stupid
112. My high heels always aerate the lawn

"I've thought of a bunch more since then, too!" said the Tragic Romantic.

"Too bad, we have to go get the kids a snack right now," said the Maternal One.

III: "I guess I'll have to change - er - make - my plan..."

"Write something about the Reader!" suggested the Tragic Romantic.

The Reader is a shape shifter. She most often takes the form of a cat (if she chooses to take any form at all - quite often she prefers to be invisible, perhaps the only being in this world to have such a desire). Sometimes the cat transforms the end of her tail into glasses which she raises to whichever self happens to need to use them, most frequently the Writer. Regardless of what form she takes, she never has a mouth and cannot speak.

The Reader is the only one to have traveled outside of the Mirrors of Self. She takes an extensive video-journal wherever she goes, sharing it with everyone freely through an instantaneous telepathic communi-Kate-ion ("That was terrible," said the Anxious One). It is in great measure because of her that the inner world can be so lush and brilliant.

***

About a year and a half ago, there had been discussion about writing a short story that had never been given a title because it had never come to fruition. The images from the story sometimes resurfaced from time to time.

The story would have been about a girl who was looking for a friend. She lived in a world where everybody had little latched doors on their stomachs ("How would that even work?" asked the Researcher) leading to a small chamber where each person carried a brilliant ball of white light. Many of the doors had a small window revealing the light to those around them. Some were open a crack. The girl in search of a friend was especially skilled at peering into the doors of others, even going so far as to pry some of them open with brute force. Hers, however, was windowless, locked tight and she was cursed with the fate to have a particularly powerful and blinding ball of light within. If someone managed to somehow have enough patience to open her door, or compell her to cautiously open it to them, even the faintest glimpse at her light would be so forceful and magnificent that it would cause the potential friend to stumble back, clutching their eyes in exquisite pain. For this girl there had never been a friend who could look at her light without eventually killing themselves.

***

The Researcher scratched her head. Weren't they supposed to be writing a novel about their novel? Why was this pointless, over-emotional, imaginary story circulating again, then? It didn't have any kind of basis on reality, anyway. There was no real, tangible, empirical evidence to suggest that friendship was something at which they sucked. To measure that, one would have to somehow gather the data for it across time, certainly which would also account for all the myriad successes. Probably some of the successes were not even particularly visible; looking at things objectively, she would probably be forced to admit that there were surprising ways at which she both sucked and excelled at friendshipping. 

The Researcher continued to think about this. A value would have to be assigned to each friendship, and they would have to be ranked against one another, which was obviously a morally repulsive thought - measuring the "value" of a person. Anyway, the data would be both impractical if not wholly impossible to gather, especially since it would be impossible to divest herself of her own personal biases. And the all important question: would it be productive? What would such an effort tell her about herself, what would be the point of such a study? 

If anything, merely imagining objectively cataloging past friendship successes was the only part of this whole exercises that had any true value.

The Researcher smiled. There were good reasons why she was the most well-loved of all of them in the Mirrors of Self. She was often the only one whose trust could not be doubted.

(I, the Writer, would like to add that I also strive for honesty and authenticity in all my work, and so even I must admit that sometimes my biases come through more than I - or the Researcher - would like. The Researcher is much more vigilant about fighting her biases, while my goals are more connected to storytelling itself. Even a slightly tainted story - if written - is more valuable to me than my personal moral value of being open, honest, objective, true etc.)

***

The Researcher had set up several folding chairs in a circle. Not everybody within the Mirrors of Self would show up, but better to be prepared.

The others slowly started to assemble. The Anxious One was looking particularly sullen. She was sitting back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest, her legs crossed, and was scowling at everybody. About once a month her crabbiness became overly accentuated. Meanwhile, the Tragic Romantic had streams of mascara running down her face and was trying very hard to choke back silent sobs about how they had run out of eggs that morning and how that was the Worst Possible Thing to Ever Have Happened Since the Dawn of Time.

The Researcher began: "We are meeting today because of three things. You should each have your agenda?" Papers had been passed out.

"Writer, you'll be taking notes?"

"Do you even have to ask that?" scoffed the Anxious One.

"It's good to have everything in order," replied the Researcher, not missing a beat. She was not at all offended by the Anxious One, and in fact, they were usually very close friends; it was easy to accept and that sometimes, the Anxious One was just a little bit crazy, and it was something to be overlooked.

"Okay! So, Item Number One: Deadlines." 

"Why do we have to have deadlines? It's too...it's too...restricting!" cried the Tragic Romantic. She was very much an in-the-moment kind of person, always being blown about by the latest whim. She was basically always composing some kind of dialogue with someone else, or some kind of poem, or some kind of status update which she titled, "The Pulse of Kate." It was sometimes very stupid, and the Writer (that's me) was often pretty loathe to let it see the light of day.

"I think it's the only possible way we will ever finish this project," said the Researcher. "That is, if we have all agreed that it is something worth finishing?" 

The Philosopher, sometimes known as the Wishy-Washy One, started to clear her throat. She always did that before she wanted to make a speech. She was wearing a toga (The Anxious One wants it to be noted that it is a modest toga lest you get any crazy ideas). The Researcher winced a little bit. It was sometimes quite difficult for her to be patient with the Philosopher's rants. 

 The Mystic had walked over and put her hand on the Philosopher's shoulder as a way of saying, "hush, don't even start." "Oh...fine," said the Philosopher. The Mystic returned to her yoga mat. She was wearing her favorite tank top (the Anxious One wants it to be noted that it is a modest tank top - but the truth is it probably isn't, but don't worry, there's not much that the Mystic needs to worry about revealing). The tank top was a faded print of a cat doing yoga with the caption, "Na-Meow-Ste." (The Anxious One also wants me to note that she does not approve of it.)

"So! Deadlines. We want to write a novel. Rather, the Tragic Romantic kind of pushed us into this project, we already published something online - it's left the Mirrors of Self. I see this as a kind of commitment. We can't back out on our commitments, right?"

The others all nodded in assent. The Tragic Romantic was scribbling down some notes for a new poem about how no matter how hard they tried, they always seemed to fail at their commitments.

"So! Let's think of some deadlines. I've done some research, and I guess our novel should be around 80k words or so. We have about 2k so far in the unedited version of chapter one, but I guess it should be a total of about 5k per chapter, which would put us at about 16 chapters?"

"Let's round it up to 20 chapters, since that's a nice even number," suggested the Writer. "It also gives us a little bit more breathing room for the size of a chapter." 

"Chapter One really does suck. Our sister said it made her laugh. It wasn't supposed to make people laugh. We should just give up!" the Tragic Romantic picked up another tissue to blow her nose.

"Chapter One is raw and unedited. We're obviously not finished with it. But this meeting is not an editing meeting."

The Anxious One scowled. She had been looking forward to slashing through that pile of writing with sharp, ferocious daggers. 

"No, it really isn't," said the Researcher, matter-of-factly. "Look at your Agenda." 

"Okay! So if there are 20 chapters, and the first chapter is done-ish, and if we can write say, a chapter every week, that should get us done by about, um...mid-Aprilish?" the Writer was a little bit sad that it would take that long. She wished every moment of every day could be spent writing.

"That's not very long, don't worry," assured the Researcher.

"Is this pre-editing?" asked the Anxious One.

"Yes."

The Anxious One Scowled.

"We will never get this project finished," moaned the Tragic Romantic.

"Well, perhaps not, true, but all we can really do is try. It seems like a fun, diverting project for the winter, and the fact that we have this - this -" 

"Muse?" posited the Philosopher. "It does seem that we always tend to need a muse for our writing, doesn't it? The traditional ones are Epic Poetry, History, Music/Lyrics, Love, Tragedy, Hymns, Dance, Comedy, and Astronomy - so who would ours be?" The Philosopher tended to ask a lot of questions.

The Anxious One rolled her eyes. "I guess our muses would be bullsh*t, crap, bunk, drivel, nonsense, garbage, refuse, idiocy, and asininity." 

"I literally just looked those words up in a Thesaurus for you, you know!" said the Researcher.

"Aren't our muses technically real people who are outside of the Mirrors of Self? Or are they ideas?" the Philosopher was about to stand up again. The Tragic Romantic was flipping to a new page in her notebook. The Writer was scrambling to keep up with what was going on. 

She often had difficulties doing this. Sometimes it was like the running internal dialogue was like a wild horse that had escaped before it was properly saddled.  

"What the **** do you know about horses? So now you are going to pretend that you know anything about horses?" the Anxious One growled.

The Reader-Cat hissed at the Anxious One, which was her way of saying that she had traveled into many novels which had involved horses and horseback-riding. The Researcher was really tempted to prove the Anxious One wrong by going off on a tangent into Wikipedia but the Mystic had given her a mug of steaming hot tea and was pointing at the Agenda. The Anxious One wanted it to be noted that it was herbal tea. She tended to need to have the last word most of the time.

"Look, I can try my very best to get one of these installments out every week. But it will be a little bit difficult, what with all the other projects and goals - many of them writing - many of them that don't even involve life behind the Mirrors of Self that much." 

"Oh, you mean like, your real life?" The Anxious One was now glowering at them all with a kind of sickening smile. 

"'What' 'is' 'real' anyway?" asked the Philosopher.

"OKAY - so, we have committed to at least one chapter per week, then? Or at least, to try for it? Shall we commit to that officially?" asked the Researcher.

There was a general murmur of assent.

"Okay! Item Number Two: Planning Meetings. Should we have about one planning meeting per chapter, then? Does that make sense?"

There was another general murmur of assent.

"We should try to have some kind of agenda, right?" 

"I guess the real benefit from these planning meetings will be the - the - pep-talk-iness of them," said the Writer. 

"That, and the fact that it is pretty much another way of committing ourselves to the project. Isn't it?" The Philosopher was about to stand up but the Researcher had already quickly stood. 

"Okay! I think we have come to some pretty logical conclusions. We each have our own individual purposes for embarking on this project, we have a plan about how we can finish it, we have some deadlines - now let's get to work. This meeting is officially adjourned!"

The Anxious One would have liked to have ripped the first chapter to pieces right then and there, but it was no use. The others were already going to their respective offices, each of which looked very different from the others'. The Anxious One did not have her own separate office, but tended to just loom around whichever of them was in charge at the moment. She did have an extensive system of filing cabinets in which she tucked away all kinds of memories - mostly embarrassing or negative - which she could pull from at a moment's notice (certainly this is where their unfinished short story was kept, though it had been a collaborative project with the Tragic Romantic). 

But when the others were busy, it was exceedingly difficult for the Anxious One to know which memory to draw from, so she tended to instead just turn to muttering things under her breath at them. This is precisely why they needed another Big, Ridiculous, Silly Project at this time, after all. 

A low-stakes, high-rewards project.

This novel would be the perfect project. 

Chapter II: Feedback, Feedback, Over the bounding main, for many a stormy wind shall blow 'ere Jack comes home again!

Writing Online

"Cast thy bread upon the waters,"
so, was this guy feeding ducks?
Waiting, waiting, always waiting.
Promises are hard to trust.

Better pelt out piles of pebbles -
bread'll never make it 'cross!
Or perhaps I'll heave these boulders,
And other assorted rocks.

Doesn't matter that they read it,
only possibility.
So long, jewels of my collection.
I hope you'll come back to me.

 *  * *

"Wow, that waxed a bit dramatic at the end there, don't you think?" The Researcher didn't have the patience for poetry writing. Poetry reading was fine, as long as there was some bigger purpose. "Like learning about the history of meter. That is actually quite an interesting - "

"Of course it's dramatic. It's poetry, you idiot."
The Tragic Romantic gave the Writer a high five, which made her have to put down the phone she was one-handedly swyping with. The Writer often enjoyed colluding with the Tragic Romantic, getting down the words in a somewhat steady stream. Sometimes the Researcher was goaded into helping, like whenever a thesaurus was needed, which was typically fairly often. Not with this one, though.

"Back to the boulder we are working on..."

"It's kinda... It's more of a pile of boulders."

"Is that a mountain?"

"What kind of moron builds a mountain in the ocean?" The Anxious One was sometimes also the voice of reason.

"Maybe the boulders float?" The Researcher was thinking about pumice. Or... Very small rocks. Very small boulders? Hmm. The answer to the Anxious One's question is apparently an oxymoron.

"I wonder if anybody is going to understand what we're doing here, writing a novel about writing a novel." The Writer stretched her fingers and yawned. "With any luck, the other novel will turn out pretty well on its own."

"I thought it was pretty great!" said the Tragic Romantic.

The Anxious One, who was not only sometimes the voice of reason but also could be quite the merciless editor, snorted, "Well that's predictable. It only had the dramatic parts."

"But writing the exciting action - plot plot plot - skipping the description, that's what we learned works!" Protested the Researcher.

"You skipped the ENTIRE WEDDING SCENE."

"I was really impatient to get to the part with the sex."

"Look, the main thing - the most important thing - the part that frankly, ruins it for me almost completely, is the typos!" The Anxious One checked the transcript of what she was saying. "Hey, you left out my swears."

The Writer said, "that's my prerogative. I pretty much leave out 99% of your swearing."

"What about your shpiel about keeping a perfectly faithful transcript?"

"They're distracting."

"And stupid-sounding," piped in the Researcher.

The Anxious One scowled. "okay, okay. But did anybody else catch the biggest typo of them all?! THE VILLAIN'S NAME?!"

All of them looked at each other. That was quite a disappointment.

The Anxious One put her fingers to her mouth and started to bite her nails. "We should just like, go back and edit it."

The Writer shook her head. "No, it stays. Remember our desktop mantra?"

Some weeks ago now upon the invitation of a man they highly esteemed and respected, they had participated in a ten day social media fast. It had taken about a month to discover some of the effects of this fast. Only recently had they discussed one of the most important lessons learned about where and how time was wasted on social media. The answer: rereading.

Write something. Reread it. Post it. Reread it. Notice that somebody else read it. Reread it trying to pretend you're them, thinking their thoughts, seeing it and judging it as they would. Consider the possibility of x reading it. Reread it. Fix typos along the way, of course, which is probably good - but the time! The wasted time!

They had been casting all kinds of various sizes of rocks/words across the "waters" for so long now, it was almost impossible to notice the bad habit of rereading. The Anxious One relished the additional opportunities to worry and always came up with the nastiest, most depressing ways in which others might interpret the writing. The worst part was that quite often, she was actually right. This made her comments impossible to ignore.

She was also the one who begged for the rereadings. She savored them, actually.

But the time! "No." The Writer was firm and final. "We are not going to waste our lives in that way. This is why I posted that desktop background image. It's a good mantra for us for now."

[This is the place where the image would be if we weren't too lazy to insert it. But it's pretty boring anyway: just a .png of the words:

Reread
       Only
            Once!

]
     
"I liked the alley of trees at Rožmitál better."

"We can - and who knows, maybe we will - go back and fix those problems with the novel later. For now it's only onward and forward."

When writing, there was not much possibility to be overwhelmed with other feelings.

"Hey, I recently wrote a poem about that! And your sister said it was really good! 'How to prevent myself from falling down a dark abyss...'"

"Why'd it have to be an abyss, anyway? Why not a pit or something else less..."

"Abysmal?"

Groan.

The Writer shushed the Tragic Romantic. "We will let those poems see the light of day eventually. But why not create a collection entitled 'Men Who Piss Me Off' -"

"'Or broke my heart'!"

"How about just: 'Kate's Wrath'?"

"Look, I think you think the solution to every problem is to write a book about it." The Researcher was holding a box labeled 'Postpartum Recovery.' Everybody else groaned. They knew from experience that she was going to start shoving all kinds of data about how to do this effectively. It wasn't that she was wrong - it's just that it was, unfortunately, not something one could think their way to accomplishing. Things that didn't take place in the internal world were so much more difficult to control and command. Like almost everything having to do with a physical body.

"Sleep research and postpartum hormones...Lemmee see... There's a folder here about that somewhere..."

"Okay, okay, we get it. Time to stop writing and go back to sleep. Maybe we'll dream about something fantastic." The Tragic Romantic was already on her way to doing just that from where she lay on her velvet chaise, from the look on her face, eyes closed, obviously lost in some engrossing vision.

Even if nobody else reads or gets the fantastic inside joke we are apparently intent on creating, I think it will be worthwhile. We always want feedback on our work, after all, and it's so difficult to wait for it.

And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourselves.

Chapter I : We start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

There are people that live inside of all of us in our unique internal world. The landscape of this place is lush and brilliant and full of life and beauty. You can go anywhere in this world, transported millions of miles in flashes of seconds. You can say anything, be anyone - you can do amazing things within this world of thought.

But unless a Writer (or a Speaker) somehow forms these words and puts them out into actual, physical space, it will be almost impossible to avoid succumbing to utter loneliness. You have to share this world or you cannot be truly happy.

"Why would you write that?" said the Researcher.

"Because," said The Writer. "I'm the Writer." 

"But you don't actually believe that." 

"Sure I do!"

The Researcher looked over the Writer's shoulder. She was always writing, as you might expect. Typically she was sitting at a computer desk, or was one-handedly swyping on a smartphone (which, by the way, was really difficult because of the autocorrect fun wombat). 

Sometimes, the Writer wrote in long form, though she was pretty picky with her pens. Nothing was more obnoxious than writing with a pen that was almost running out of ink. It wouldn't matter to the reader, unless the ink completely ran dry of course, but the feel of it was just nasty! Like running nails down a chalkboard or listening to someone squish a cotton ball in your ear. Her English Teacher had once made an offhand comment about using pens, and it had stuck. Rather, more specifically, he had written it on one of her papers. "Use a pen - always!" Meaning: "I am saying that you should have used a pen rather than the pencil or disgusting adolescent gel pen which you happened to choose." Pretty much every single word her English Teacher had ever said - or more precisely, written - had become gospel truth to her. She had tried to follow the Rule of Pens religiously ever since that long forgotten assignment.

When the Writer did choose to write in long form, it was always on a blank piece of paper. The ruled paper was just too conforming. Besides, there wasn't ever any to be found. 

While we are imagining writing utensils, let's not forget the possibility of quills and ink. 

"Will you, like, shut up already? You can get quite verbose, you know." The Researcher was folding her arms and looking at the Writer disapprovingly. They often quarreled about style. The Researcher was interested in many things, but over-embellished writing was definitely not one of them. 

The Writer sighed. Ultimately, to be true to her principles, she would have to write all of the details of their disagreements down, otherwise nobody would ever be able to see anything true through the Mirrors of Self. That was, after all, the entire purpose of this venture. 

"What, so, like, there's no plot?" The Researcher frowned. She had polled a few people (okay, one - her sister) and knew that without a story, a novel was bound to fail. Meaning, that people would not be interested in it enough to read it. The Researcher was mostly interested in ideas and theories. But all of the other people in the internal world beyond the Mirrors of Self wanted to do something with those things that she learned. Big Things. Great Things. Important Things.

The Tragic Romantic - who was a pretty big pain in the you-know-what - suddenly appeared. She often did that. This time, she was lounging on an overstuffed velvet chaise. "If only we could write a novel!"

"There were so many books in the library today, and not one of them was written by you yet, you know!" 

Hello, Anxious One.

Unlike the Tragic Romantic, who can sometimes be willfully shut in a closet or be compelled to take long vacations to Jamaica during fantastically delicious spells of intense research, the Anxious One is always there. As anyone who chooses to look into the Mirrors of Self will come to see, although she may provide some (or perhaps most) conflict in this internal world, she will not prove to be the ultimate antagonist, either. 

"There's got to be a plot. We can't write a novel without one." The Researcher was matter-of-fact, practical. Grounded in insufferable patience for weighing out the evidence.

"Well, for now, we can just be satisfied with the fact that we have created - and dare I say so, rather successfully - a space in which we can write? I mean, of course, a place in which I will write down what we are all saying, doing, and thinking. The story will unfold in its own due time. No need to rush things." 

"Nobody is going to read this anyway, you know."

"Anxious One, we can just check the blog stats to verify that."

"This person said that blogging a novel is extremely annoying from the reader's point of view." 

"Well, that's just because people like to binge when they read nowadays. Serials have always been a way to write, since like, the Dawn of Time. Or at least, the Dawn of Writing." 

"Nobody has successfully done this thing before." And by "This Thing" she meant "Blog a Novel." 

"Actually, maybe they have and we just don't know about it. It is hard to wade through the pages and pages of click-baity articles to find that. And even if it were true, it doesn't mean it's not possible. We can prove 'em all wrong." 

We will prove 'em all wrong. There are too many stories to tell and too few people to tell them to.

"Ooh! So do you think this book will be - "
"Blook."
"Blook? What?"
"Yeah - it's a cross between a blog and a book!"
"That - that is really stupid."
"But, it's what it is!"
"Umm...okay. Moving on." Sometimes the Researcher said intensely and horrifyingly embarrassing things, and the Anxious One would try to patiently explain over and over how the people on the outside would necessarily find these things ridiculous and then draw the conclusion that they were all unlovable, despicable, undeserving of any attention of any kind whatsoever - worst of all, uninteresting.

"Wow, that got dramatic really fast. Did you have to write it all out like that?" The Researcher scowled.
"I am committed to telling the story appropriately and accurately."
"Hey, I approve of that paragraph"
"You're the Tragic Romantic. You'd approve of anything gloomy."
"Gloom, doom, and poetry! That's what Romantics do best!"

"Or we could like, write something a little bit less - introspective. Something full of action and adventure. Something utterly the opposite of this current world."

The Writer smiled.