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.