Story Hunted

A story was trying to kill me. Because I wasn't writing her into existence.

Over and over and over. Dying a thousand times. Because I was living thatstory. Not my story, not a "figment of my imagination." She was very real, and really deadly.

She was like one of those ear-wigs you couldn't get out of your head. But this was no stupid song, or a TV jingle. 

This story was out to get me. 

It's attitude was: either bring me into your world, or die - failing.

"Surely, you're not that serious," I asked.

"What would you know about living in purgatory?" She replied. "Life as undead, unliving, another story that never saw your 'light of day' - what would you know about what happens to a story that was never told.?"

She had a good point there. I knew only of my earliest memories in childhood, of growing up in a family, of growing old, of knowing that my life would be over at some point. Of the uncertainty of what happened after that...

For a story that was never told, who never had its own life, what was their existence?

The beginning was probably when I decided to listen to Stephen King, who said that stories wrote themselves. And another author who said that not only did stories become alive in your gut, making all of your glands become alive through interaction, no - he went on to say that stories were actually alive. Then you find out that Vonnegut and Bradbury and other authors actually 'interviewed' their characters to find what the story needed to be.

It wasn't what the author intended it to be, it wasn't their intricate plotting that created the story. It wasn't due to their control, their finesse of words and text craftings, of endless dissection of other's works to find out their secrets. 

Stories were alive, their characters were alive. They wanted desperately to live.

And this one wanted to kill me to make her point.

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