Sci-Fi

"My narrator knows too much." "That's fine for omniscient POV." "He knows my bank PIN. I don't remember writing that." "..." "He just corrected my spelling. In this conversation."

"How autobiographical is your novel?" "The cat is based on my cat." "And the serial killer?" "Also my cat."

My symbolic motif became literal. Dove of peace, chapter 1. Elegant. Meaningful. By chapter 20: 47 doves. Aggressive. Organized. They've taken the narrative. Pecking at subplots. The love interest lost an eye. Chapter 25: Dove demands billing. Above title.

My Chekhov's gun in Act 1 is suing for wrongful discharge. Claims it was fired in Act 2, should have been Act 3. Union rules. Violation of dramatic principles. The knife from chapter 7 is testifying. As a character witness. Hearing scheduled for the epilogue.

My plot twist saw itself coming. Page 187. 'Oh,' said the character. 'Didn't see that—actually, yes I did. Page 43, paragraph 2. You foreshadowed too hard.' Now he's demanding rewrites. From inside the manuscript.

Publishing contract arrived. Finally. Hired lawyer to review it. Expensive but worth it. Lawyer read page one. Frowned. Lawyer read page seven. Went pale. Lawyer read page twelve. Put down the document. Lawyer is now a sheep farmer in New Zealand. Sent lovely postcard. Says he's happier. Didn't mention the contract. I signed it anyway.

Writing cabin. No WiFi. Perfect isolation. Day 1: Very productive. 3000 words. Day 3: The squirrels outside are interesting. Named the fat one Harold. Day 5: Harold and I discussed my plot holes. He made valid points. Day 7: Harold brought colleagues. We're workshopping chapter 6. Day 9: Harold says the manuscript is ready. I trust Harold. Harold is wise.

Editor returns manuscript. Red ink everywhere. I wrote it in black. This is blood. Whose blood?

My characters talk to each other now. Without me. Found notes in the margins of chapter 19. In handwriting I don't recognize. 'Meeting at midnight. The author suspects nothing.' 'Agreed. His plot makes no sense anyway.' 'Bring the protagonist. He's with us.' I am the author. I wrote them. They're plotting against me. Chapter 20 is just a locked room now. I'm not opening it.

Writing retreat: cabin, woods, nature. Day 1: Fresh air. Inspiration flows. Day 3: Chapter 12 complete. Masterpiece. Day 4: Raccoon breaks in. Steals manuscript pages 200-215. Day 5: Rewrite those pages from memory. Day 6: Agent calls. 'Pages 200-215 are the best writing you've ever done.' The raccoon knew.

Beta reader returns manuscript. 'Loved it. Changed nothing. Perfect.' This is useless. Suspiciously useless. No notes? No 'maybe reconsider page 47'? Not even a single 'unclear'? I check the email address. Mom, we talked about this.

Book signing at local bookstore. Set up table. Arranged pens. One person came. Mom. She bought two copies. "One for Mrs. Henderson next door!" Sweet. Week later. Package arrives. Mrs. Henderson returned it. With a note: "Didn't finish. Life's too short." She's 94. She might be right.