This is a story we’ve been following for a while. We’ve followed the ups and downs, marvelled at every facet of its grand complexity. These characters are alive to us. They have lives in our minds beyond what we read from pages and see on the screen. We’ve invested ourselves in what they do. They are no longer the products of writers. Their bodies are no longer simply those of actors. They have corporeal forms to us and they mean more than we feel they really should. We can’t believe that somehow we care so deeply about people so unreal. We shake our heads and try to forget. We try to remind ourselves instead that these are not people. They are constructs. Mere fabrications of a writer’s mind. We should feel nothing for them and leave it at that! But then what would be the point? What would be the point of a story if we didn’t care? Why would we even give it the time of day if it made us feel nothing? These characters are real to us and nothing should stop that. These characters are ours and their lives are all we care about. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.

-Alice

Let’s be recursive. I once started writing a book about a guy who was attempting to write a book. I thought it would allow me to easily connect together a load of random little snippets of writing that I couldn’t go anywhere with. Of course, I never got anywhere with it. As, like all the other things I write, I could only get so far before I ran out of ideas. And so I ended up with a little snippet of a book about a guy writing little snippets of books. And now this is a little snippet about that little snippet. And of course, this little snippet is piled in with a lot of other little snippets. Maybe one day I’ll make a book out of these little snippets. And maybe I’ll lose interest in that and the pattern will carry on forever. I wonder if I’m being a bit defeatist with the whole thing. Or maybe it’s the base that’s going wrong. Maybe I’m just enticing a pattern by writing about one. Apparently the first rule of writer’s block is to “never write about writer’s block”. Well, I’ve definitely screwed the pooch on that one! Should I be proud?

-Alice

I boarded the train and took a seat. Clutching my bag on my knee, I examined the map above the heads of the passengers on the opposite side of the carriage. I had a fair few stops to go before I reached my destination. So, I thought I’d kill some time. I took my book from my bag, opened it at the bookmark and began to read. I read until something woke me from my trance. A name in the book was suddenly startlingly familiar. I looked up once more at the map of the route I was taking. There it was. The name of the station the train was about to arrive at was here in my book, representing something else. I smiled awkwardly at this coincidence and read on. But then, there it was again. A name in the book jumped out at me. I looked at the map and it was there again. And it kept going. Every name was a point on that map. The book narrating my journey as I travelled. For a moment I was scared. Worried about what this could mean. Then I simply grinned and read on. It’s always much more interesting reading a book about London when you’re actually in London.

-Alice

I opened my eyes this morning and nothing was in focus. This wasn’t unusual as I hadn’t got my glasses on, but it wasn’t simply my vision that was shaky. I couldn’t really be sure what was going on. Or who I was. Or how I got here. Or what had just been running through my mind. That dream had really done something to my senses. I probed my mind, attempting to make it clearer, but all I got was flashes. I had a sense of the past. A sense that time had moved backwards. I wasn’t sure how that had happened. How elements of my surroundings had apparently regressed into their past forms. I couldn’t remember my feelings on this matter. I couldn’t remember whether I’d been aware of what had happened. Had I taken the change in my stride? Had I been bewildered or amazed? Or maybe I hadn’t even been aware. Maybe I thought all had been right in this past world. Maybe it was right and it was me who was wrong. That’s the cliche question. The nature of dreams compared to reality. The connection them being so tenuous. In one, we almost always forget the other. I reached for my glasses and put them on. It was then that I noticed the book laying by my pillow. Suddenly, it all made sense. Or maybe, it made even less sense than before. How can anyone be sure?

-Alice