# NUAT - Chapter 1 - 5320 words (Suggestive scantily-clad girl -- is disappointed)



## JustRob (Jan 29, 2015)

A couple of people are curious to read my half-baked novel, so here's the first chapter to put them off. Don't be put off by the young lady's behaviour though; she's really very nice and only dreaming, so she thinks. If you read this at all please read all of it, because it changes significantly towards the end. Also please keep your wits about you; there's a lot going on behind the words. Expect to see, hear and feel what I'm trying to project. I'd appreciate hearing about any of the less obvious things that look right that you notice because I would expect you to be the cream of perceptive readers and I'd like someone to appreciate them.
I read somewhere the advice that one should stop writing when one gets to the end. Obviously I didn't take it.;-)

*Never Upon A Time
**(about something else)

Three clocks hang on the office wall.
The white one has stopped. The black one keeps ticking on.
Above them the red one is going backwards.
The fairy tale has started.

**Chapter 1*
*Nowhere to begin
*​THE END – that was it, the only end possible to this story. Her straw-stacking camel-driver of a boyfriend was history. Her feelings about him boiled in her mind as she assessed the lone figure looking at her from her bathroom mirror. Long dark blonde hair curled a little on its way to shoulders where there hung a black nightdress just flimsy enough to reveal her figure enthrallingly. He’d bought the garment for her but he wasn’t the type to allow himself to be in her thrall. He’d even tried to convince her that her hair was some other colour, golden or ash or even light brown – he’d stopped short of dirty blonde or dishwater blonde – but it was none of those and she resented his attempts to redefine the image before her. The nightdress was a concession on her part but he’d never seen her wearing it; indeed she never had before tonight and she wore it now solely because he wouldn’t see it – ever. After tonight it would be in the rubbish unwashed, unwanted, unworn again, but for now it was special, a symbol of spite, something to stop all her thoughts about him. Its smooth hyphephilial surface clung to her in places so closely that it was more like a tattoo than a fabric, but she didn’t want him tattooing his life on her body like that. Where the garment hung away from her well-outlined form attempting to reach her knees it appeared as though she was already shedding the tattoo like a snake shedding its skin. If only she could shed her memories of time wasted with him so easily, but they would remain tattooed on her mind as a lesson learned. The illusion of a tattoo was enhanced by cunning use of a combination of glass-clear nylon, fine filigree lace and satin weave panels to mould the pattern around parts of her body unsuitable for ink; her nipples in particular were left clearly visible through the nylon. At present they didn’t deign to disturb the smooth surface of the garment but the nylon would make it easy to prompt them to do so, if she had a prompter any more. 

Despite its seemingly erotic appearance and touch her meagre covering was a beautiful one-sided illusion. To achieve its effect it had many hidden seams and the satin and lace were far rougher on her side, so it was an irritation just like him. It wasn’t so much something to be worn as scenery for use in a play, with its artistic side to the audience and unfinished roughness behind. Given the chance he would have used it in play but she suspected that she would have been little more than a plain backdrop to his performance before it as he strutted within his own mind. The irritation was aggravated by the closeness of its fit to her, or rather of her fit to it as had they not fitted each other like skin and body he would no doubt have blamed the body. 

She glared at her image returning the glare from that unreality beyond the glass. ‘You are all he wanted, so now you are all he will get, an illusion without feelings only in his mind’s eye,’ she thought. She had to admit that the image looked appealing but she could feel the irritating reality. Just one night spent wearing the thing would separate her from any illusion or doubt about him and remind her why she had ended their affair. ‘You go to him then and leave me to find someone else to share my life,’ she silently said to the image which reflected on her unspoken words. As she turned to her right to walk out of the bathroom door her non-existent self turned to her left and went out by another.

She, that is the one whose heart was in the right place, flounced into the bedroom of her small flat and threw herself into bed. At her age she was lucky to have a place of her own and, although it had taken some financing by her parents to acquire it, it gave her the feeling that she was in control of her life, something that was important to her. Nevertheless that life was now lacking something and she wrapped her arms around her own body to feel the more sensual side of the material clinging to it, the side intended for someone else’s touch. It didn’t help much as hugging herself just made the seams even more unendurable and she felt the need to tear it off and be comfortable, but she resolved to put up with the discomfort just to brand it into her memory of him. It was time to put herself first, to have the confidence to find a young man with flaws which she could heal, not opt for a man who was so complete in himself that she would add nothing to his life. She looked up at a crack in the ceiling. It had always been there, a familiar imperfection reassuring her of a steady relationship with a ceiling which would never fall in on her life. That was what she needed, not a total crackpot but a man whose personality was just a little crazed, but not enough to fall apart on her. She drifted off to sleep, swinging between anger about the past and optimism about the future, anger about the optimism and past about the future, nightdress about her body, flimsy not to be seen – whatever. 

A bright light in her eyes woke her. She opened them to see an evenly illuminated crack-free ceiling, so looked around to see where she was. It had to be a dream. She was lying in what appeared to be an enormous green pizza. The surface under her was soft like her mattress but felt more like cheese and a border of something similar surrounded her several feet away. ‘It must be vegetarian,’ she thought dreamily, then, ‘No, that can’t be right, not if I’m the topping. That’s pretty evident wearing this nightdress. Well I hope I’m still wearing it. Yes I can feel the damned thing. I’m sure even sausages must be more comfortable in their skins than this. Hello, is this the delivery boy? Things are looking up.’ She saw a long-haired youth standing over her, brown curls resting on the shoulders of a neat vivid blue zip-fronted outfit that fitted in all the right places. ‘Too vivid for a dream,’ she thought, ‘and he’s no giant to match my pizza, so I’m not sure. Better ask then. I’d like to know before someone starts slicing.’

‘Am I dreaming?’ she said.

The slim figure replied, ‘I’m afraid I really couldn’t say,’ adding, ‘but I think I am.’

‘This will never do, wasting time debating ownership of a dream,’ she thought, ‘Perhaps we could share it.’ She needed distraction from the issues of reality and this seemed a pleasant opportunity without consequences. She had a feeling that he could deliver the goods on time. Stretching herself she spread her fingers and pressed them deep into the resilient surface. ‘In that case,’ she hummed lazily, ‘are you dreaming what I’m dreaming?’ but he’d already turned and was walking away over the spongy surface. ‘No,’ she thought, ‘I’m not having that.’ She stood up carefully, never having walked on a pizza before, and looking down at her bare feet spread her arms to balance as she bounced a little to ensure that it was safe. As she did so she realised that he’d turned back on hearing her remark and was watching her imitating a fledgling testing its wings. She cursed herself for looking so gawky, but it occurred to her that it shouldn’t matter if it was her dream. Clearly this ownership issue needed resolving immediately. Taking a pace towards him on the rubbery substance she asked, ‘Well, if we’re both dreaming then who decides what happens next?’

He seemed to consider the matter for a moment and then a worried look appeared on his face as he said, ‘The date – please tell me the date.’

‘What stupid sort of question is that to ask now?’ she thought, ‘I know he’s dishy but does he have so many appointments in girls’ dreams that he can’t fit me in? I thought he could deliver on time but apparently he doesn’t even know what day it is.’ Nevertheless the panicked look on his face persuaded her to humour him, but the date wouldn’t come to her mind either. Usually dreams go undated until they’re over. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I can’t remember the date. Is it that important?’

Maybe it was as he looked at his watch. Perhaps that told him the date. They stood looking at each other for an apparent eternity. It had never occurred to her that it was possible to dream of nothing happening, but nothing was apart from her own thoughts, which strangely seemed quite distinct from what she was dreaming. He seemed like someone she’d always known, but presumably that was simply because he was a figment of her own imagination, which appeared to be working overtime. Perhaps like that nightdress he was a patchwork of pieces of other people known to her sewn together on the inside, in which case maybe he was feeling as uncomfortable as she was. ‘Well is it?’ she asked again, tiring of a dream where the pause button had apparently been pressed for too long. It wasn’t as though she could nip out and get a coffee in the interval.

To add to her confusion he said something about looking in the calendar for her, which she didn’t understand as she’d never consider her picture appearing in any calendar and most definitely not wearing that nightdress. Then without warning or asking he pulled her against himself and kissed her. She might have felt that at last things were going her way but instead she felt something else.

A pins and needles sensation started in her extremities and swept rapidly through her limbs until she couldn’t feel them at all. As he pulled her against his body she kept going as though she were soaking right into him. She could feel the fabric of her nightdress pressed against her back by his hands, but it was the sensual outer surface that she could feel, not the irritating side, as though he were holding the empty garment behind her. At the same time she felt her breasts rubbing against something hard curving around them, but apart from that she could no longer feel any sensations from her skin at all, not even a memory of her abrasive nightwear. What she did feel was her heart pounding strangely with a double beat as though it had split into two separate organs. She’d closed her eyes when he kissed her, but when she tried to open them all she could see was a black starry sky through which she seemed to be falling. She tried to gasp but her breathing was somehow controlled and steady, beyond her influence. Disoriented by the vision she closed her eyes but, feeling the sensations fade back to more normal ones, opened them cautiously again to find that she was simply in his arms. The postponed gasp came at last and she said, ‘You call that a kiss?’

‘I haven’t had any complaints before,’ he replied.

‘No, not that, all the other strange stuff, the stars and the – squishing together. Standing on this stuff I wouldn’t know whether the earth moved but I wasn’t expecting an interstellar heart attack either.’ As all sensation returned she felt a chill in the soles of her bare feet. She looked down at a hard grey floor surface and added, ‘but what’s happened to the pizza? My feet are getting cold.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Squishing together? Pizza? I think I’ve missed something. I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before. I didn’t actually expect to end up under the stars like that either.’

‘Well, if I’d known that we were going outside under the stars I’d have worn something more suitable myself – like my skin at least. It felt like I lost most of it when I fell inside – inside something. I thought you were just going to kiss me. And why is this floor so cold all of a sudden?’

‘I didn’t even know there was an outside before,’ he muttered, then added brightly pointing at the floor, ‘but it must have worked,’ as though the disappearing pizza had been a conjuring trick. He looked at his watch yet again and his face fell. ‘My watch isn’t working though. That’s strange.’

She was getting annoyed at his obsession with dates and times. How could she enjoy a leisurely dream with a constant clockwatcher? ‘Working?’ she said, ‘Is anything supposed to work in a dream? I don’t expect things to make sense but why have I got someone so senseless?’ 

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this. I was so engrossed in being lecherous that I forgot my manners. Come with me. We should be able to find something more for you to wear.’ 

More to wear? This dream was going backwards, but she was curious to know where backwards led, certainly not anywhere that she’d expected apparently. Bizarre thoughts of ballroom dancing crept into her mind; the man leads and yet the woman goes backwards; no, nothing was making sense any more. Anyway, now that the bouncy green surface had gone from under them the circumstances weren’t ideal for lying back – and that damned nightdress was still scratching her again. How had that managed to accompany her into this dream? She imagined herself lying comfortably naked on that soft smooth green surface while he – no, apparently this wasn’t her dream after all. He led her through a doorway and she realised that her pizza was simply a long green upholstered couch running around the walls of a circular room broken only by two doorways. However, the change in the floor remained unexplained as did the clarity of the details in this supposed dream. She wasn’t just thinking these things; she was actually seeing and feeling them in incredible detail. They crossed a corridor, which curved around the outside of the room with big picture windows facing into it, and entered another room which looked like it should have been in a hospital. Well at least it had a bed. She thought it a bit odd to start playing doctors and nurses, but he just opened a tall cupboard and said, ‘I thought these would be here. Nothing much has changed apparently. You should find something to fit you.’ 

In the cupboard hung a row of white dressing gowns and below them were towelling slippers, presumably for the use of patients. Realising that she was getting cold she gratefully found the right sizes and put them on, amused by his forthright honesty about his lechery and unexpected turn of gentlemanly behaviour. Meanwhile he walked back across the round room and looked at a darkened doorway beyond the one opposite, apparently lost in thought. He seemed to be swinging from outright passion to indifference and preoccupation. If this were really a dream then she’d have expected just pleasant thoughts and sensations, but instead she found herself having doubts and needing information. Following after him she said, ‘Please explain – well everything really,’ not able to identify the question uppermost in her mind.

‘Um, I’m not supposed to do that normally – but maybe that only applies there and we’re here, I think. Look, I need to check some things. Could you just wait there for a moment and then I’ll try to explain.’ He walked away into the darkened room leaving her even more confused, knowing that he appeared so also. A little light filtered into the room from the corridor but she heard metallic sounds and curses as he blundered around. This made her even more apprehensive, doubting that anyone would use such language in her dreams, but she couldn’t see how she could be in his and know it, so maybe it wasn’t a dream at all. 

Before dark thoughts grew in her mind he emerged again saying, ‘Nothing’s working, not even the emergency lighting. That’s really peculiar. We’ll have to go upstairs. Perhaps we’ll find the answer there.’ 

He pointed out a staircase at the end of the corridor and as they walked over to it she said, ‘Please tell me honestly. Is this a dream or is it really happening?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘Doesn’t anything happen in your dreams then? No, it’s not a dream and it isn’t happening, but I think it’s real. I don’t suppose that helps, does it?’

‘No,’ she said, looking at the walls of the staircase in front of them, which were painted with large fish against an aquamarine background. ‘How can something be real if it isn’t happening?’

‘I mean that everything here is normal. The things that seem to happen here are just as you’d expect. If you miss a step you’ll fall down the stairs and injure yourself, so be careful in those slippers. It wouldn’t matter much though; virtually nothing matters here, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Here, take my hand.’

She slipped her hand into his and she felt it close and stop with a gentle grip, but his fingers felt as rigid as though she were hand in hand with a marble statue. His flesh was smooth but hard as though he spent his time handling heavy objects, maybe just working out, but the texture didn’t suggest that he was involved in rough labour. How was it that every cell in her body seemed to be contributing to this dream, that she was assessing him in a way that she’d only do in real life? Could it be that all this was real? No, there’d been that peculiar experience in his arms, drug induced possibly, but then why had it happened after the dream or whatever had begun and how could it have ceased so abruptly? She had to press him for answers. ‘That kiss wasn’t what I expected. That wasn’t normal. Something weird definitely happened,’ she said.

‘I thought you were asking me about this place, not that one.’

‘That place, what place? Is there a difference then?’

‘Give me a chance. I’m still trying to understand what’s going on myself.’

‘You don’t know either? But you seem to know your way around. How can you know where you are but not what’s happening, or what’s not happening as you insist?’

He stopped on the staircase to look at her. The only way to describe his eyes was that they were hazel, if only because she couldn’t decide exactly what colour they were, but she could see every detail in them so clearly and – he was talking now, the look on his face suggesting that he realised that she was truly having doubts. ‘The best way that I can explain it is that I know how this place used to be, but maybe not exactly how it is now. You could say that I’ve been here before, but I don’t have a precise explanation for how I got here now except that I wanted to come. To be honest I wanted to find the time to get to know you and apparently I have somehow. If you think you’re confused you should see things from my side, but I really can’t explain it yet. All I can say is that this is more than a dream but less than reality.’

‘What’s more than a dream but less than reality? There’s nothing in between those two.’

He paused for only a moment before replying, ‘But isn’t that how we plan our lives, dreaming of what we want to do and then making it a reality? Somewhere in between there are things that might possibly become reality or already are. We don’t always know which is which. Sometimes we plan ahead, rehearsing the possibilities in our minds. Maybe that’s how we should see this, as a rehearsal for something that we might want to happen, but as I said it isn’t happening now. I’m absolutely sure of that.’ 

‘I really don’t understand. How did I get into this – more than a dream?’

‘Usually people can explain that themselves. Did you have a reason for coming that you can think of? Anything troubling you at all?’ As he spoke he looked away and carried on leading her up the stairs, maybe not wanting to make the question too personal by looking her in the eyes any more.

This was getting pretty weird, someone in a dream asking her why she was having it. Perhaps it was some form of subconscious self-analysis after all and she should go along with it. In any case she was convinced that she would never meet him again and surprisingly that bothered her. ‘No, I don’t have any concerns now that I’ve split up with my boyfriend. Actually I was looking forward to the possibility of starting afresh with someone different – ’ Her voice trailed off as the situation dawned on her. He was as different as she could imagine. She wanted a relationship where she could keep control of her life and he’d just said that nothing that happened here mattered at all. Not only had she realised the implication but she’d told him as much outright. She had to know whether she was playing this game with herself or someone else. ‘Hold on,’ she said, ‘How can I tell whether you’re even real?’

He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around the room there. ‘Smaller than I expected,’ he said, ‘They’ve made some changes.’ Then he turned to her and said, ‘Oh yes, I’m very real and so are my feelings. Maybe I’m not coming up to your expectations. Does that prove anything, the fact that I’m a disappointment to you? Probably not. Now you’ll think you dreamed me up to criticise in place of your boyfriend. Okay, if that’s what you need go ahead. It wouldn’t be fair to disillusion you. Nobody should have their illusions shattered.’

She felt that at some point she’d shattered his and tried to soften her approach. ‘Okay, so maybe I was partly responsible for getting here. If so then how do I get back – to reality or ordinary dreams?’ she asked.

He looked crestfallen and said, ‘We finish that kiss and then I send you back – where were you before you met me?’

‘Funnily enough I was asleep in bed. There aren’t many other places I’d be in a nightdress like this. I have been to pyjama parties in the past, but not in this.’

‘Let me know if you do and I’ll be there. You look exquisite in it. Do you really want to go back then? Back to what, to sleep, perchance to find a better dream? How many ways can you find to offend me? Or do you think more beauty sleep could make any improvements, because I don’t.’

She felt assaulted by the oddly eloquent compliment. ‘Wait, what do you mean, finish the kiss?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry, that never really happened either, but even things that don’t happen must end. You want this to end as well, don’t you? I’m disappointed. For a moment I thought there was something –’ something he couldn’t describe apparently.

She couldn’t describe it either, but she also knew that it existed and she felt the need to press him on it. ‘What if I did stay a while, if only to get some answers? What would we do?’

‘Look for them and maybe decide how long a while it is. I’ve found the time but I don’t know how much yet and I don’t know how safe it is to be here.’

‘Safe? You mean that we could be in danger? But you said that nothing here mattered.’

‘Well danger can be unpleasant even if it doesn’t matter, in the long run that is. It’s a bit like a visit to the dentist I suppose. No matter how much you suffer at the time you know that it will end soon enough. That’s the sort of danger that I meant. Nowhere is entirely safe and as that’s exactly where we are we don’t really have to worry. You’ve nothing to fear from me either. I’m an engineer, not a mad scientist. I’m hardly going to lock you away in a room while I play music on my mighty organ. This place doesn’t even have an organ. Somebody here used to have a mouth-organ and they got pretty unpopular. There’s really nothing here to be afraid of.’ 

An engineer, that explained his strong smooth grip, but before she could think any more about his grip, his eyes, his gentle attitude and a lot more besides something startling happened. In complete contradiction of his claim the peculiar room before them filled with thunderous organ music and they stood staring at each other in amazement.

Bah! Humbug! Enough of this nonsense! This young man is no beefcake, indeed little more than an undigested bit of beef – or else this is a fairy tale beyond redemption, a romance wherein these two young people have mutually dreamed of such an encounter and Cupid has loosed his bow or Yue Lao has bound them with his red cord of fate. Either way it is love at first sight, irrational, illogical and either blessed or doomed. A woman who indulges her fantasies so rashly is more likely to conceive a child than such a young man. Perhaps we have it wrong anyway; perhaps she is his creation, a daydream wished into existence after he read a personal advertisement in a magazine or on a website. ‘_Spinster, age 20, height five foot six when balancing barefoot on a giant pizza, dark blonde hair below a cracked ceiling in her third floor flat jointly financed by her parents, seeks imperfect young man with a good sense of humour for an unlikely relationship.’ _Maybe not. No, probably this story should be lacquered with purple prose to protect it from the realities of life and the book promptly closed in the assurance that this couple will live happily ever after whatever their past or future. We could so easily call this the end if those very words had not already been written.

And yet, in closing the book so peremptorily wouldn’t we ourselves be determining the fate of this young woman, to lie pressed into two dimensions between the pages like a flower deprived of all its nutrients, a flower which may have had life if we had given it the chance, for no matter how flowery the prose there can be no reality within these pages if they remain unread. _‘How can something be real if it isn’t happening?’_ she asked. Indeed how can something happen without being touched by reality? We are well acquainted with the sensation of reality, how it envelops us, clinging more closely than even her fantastic nightdress, continually stimulating every nerve in our bodies with the overwhelming itch of existence. Scientists can analyse every fragment of its nature, even down to the most fundamental quantum particles, themselves so fantastic that ultimately only mathematics, not any plain language, can describe them. They dream of creating a model of reality, exact and complete in every detail, and yet if such a thing ever existed who could say which was the reality and which the model? In fact it happens all the time, in every human mind, creation of a model so precisely matched to our own perception of reality that we hardly know where the boundary between the two lies, as this young lady has discovered. Only when the two diverge do we ask ourselves, ‘Is this real?’ but if we have no basis for an answer we ask someone else, ‘Did you see that?’ for if their experience was the same as ours we feel justified in believing that it was real. Therein lies the essence, that an experience shared defines a reality, be it merely a model or otherwise, and therefore this young couple can only truly experience the events in their existence and share them with us if we in turn share our reality with them and augment the imperfections of the written word with our own perceptions, restoring these pressed flowers to life and giving them the dimensions that the words lack, for though they may presently lack life they have unique identities, traits and personalities which once created can never be denied. Perhaps given this opportunity they may gain insight into the nature of their reality and maybe even ours.

Where to begin though? This truly is nowhere to begin, being both nowhere and no beginning. Indeed the tale seems virtually ended in our minds, but we must take care to separate the virtual from the real. Where does any reality begin? How is it conceived? Perhaps with an event so astonishing that it is itself almost inconceivable, the scientist’s Big Bang, the aborigine’s Dreaming or the preacher’s Book of Genesis. Perhaps if this is tantamount to a fairy tale then the latter origin is pertinent to this reality, if fairies are beings trapped eternally between heaven and hell as some would claim; perhaps there is here the reason why the story has only just begun; perhaps this couple have not just fallen in love but unwittingly discovered the ultimate talisman, greater than the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant, nothing less than the key to Eden, maybe not a tangible object but a living force capable of bringing all mankind back to grace. No way; they are not worthy, not exceptional enough, and how would they use it anyway? Would they simply unlock the gates to that sacred garden and allow mankind with all its shortcomings to trample the place? Even if they didn’t, if they kept the discovery to themselves, how could any couple truly live happily ever after beyond the company of the rest of humanity? No, surely that isn’t the story. Maybe the aborigine’s dreaming is more apt, not a single event but the continual movement between a place outside of time and our reality. It seems unlikely that we’ll find any solution in the scientific community, who seem preoccupied with fighting off the invisible unicorns, poor things, that trouble them so much, but anyway we are ahead of ourselves, already seeking the nub, the end when we haven’t yet chosen a beginning.

Surely then there is only one way for this reality to begin if we wish it to, in the way that it began for all of us before we understood what it was, in a personal dreaming time that we don’t clearly remember, before our memories had a sound structure to which to cling, in other words inside the mind of a child. Surely that is where reality is first conceived. That is it then, the only beginning possible to this story. All we have to do is pledge to give these people credence and turn the page, but first a word of warning that a long time ago someone very perceptive is said to have written on a wall in a temple at Delphi. It was written in Greek but perhaps a rough English translation of it would read _‘Folly follows a pledge.’_


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## rcallaci (Jan 29, 2015)

This is my type of story-weird, odd, engrossing, with a bit of philosophical intent - The River of time, reality, dreams, existence nonexistence, that's what in between, flows in all directions. I like how the POV changes near the end- Is it a Mage, a Scholar, God or a mad programmer...

what is reality- is the virtual real or is reality all a dream- or is it that what is in between is where real creation lies. Where does the dream begin or is it already done - This first chapter is a doozy- it makes the mind swim -which for me is a delight..  Your book is a creation tale of weirdly timely proportions.  

Enjoyed-  A promising start to a journey that runs through time reality and all that other stuff...

*'Never Upon A Time
(about something else)

Three clocks hang on the office wall.
The white one has stopped. The black one keeps ticking on.
Above them the red one is going backwards.
The fairy tale has started."
*
I love this - I read this over and over and over- the flow of time has no beginning middle or end- a great start out of the box...


my warmest
bob


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## JustRob (Jan 29, 2015)

rcallaci said:


> I like how the POV changes near the end- Is it a Mage, a Scholar, God or a mad programmer...



Er, it's me, the author. I got mad at the original first chapter, so I chopped the end off and wrote down just what I thought about it. When I read it back it looked so good I kept it in, which is why the first chapter mutates into a preface to what is now the real first chapter, even though that is still number two. I'm not sure where that fits in the rules of good writing but I like it.


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## QDOS (Jan 30, 2015)

Ok I’ve read some wacky prose are you not related to Lewis Carol. Beginnings like a modern adaptation of Alice through the looking glass then morphs into a philosophical viewpoint over what might be the reality of existence. Very enjoyable read, now I just need to find the right mediation. 

_One clock set for eternity,
  One ticks too uncertainly,
  One leads to absurdity, 
  All begins mysteriously. _

  QDOS


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## JustRob (Jan 30, 2015)

QDOS said:


> Ok I’ve read some wacky prose are you not related to Lewis Carol.



Funny that you should ask that. At the end of the novel a chap who happens to have my middle name is sitting writing down everything that he has learned from it. Standing behind him is his assistant, who is named Lewis, but the writer isn't paying any attention to what Lewis is saying, or so he thinks. Somehow though one of the two main female characters in the novel, but not the one in the first chapter, has been given the name Caroline. Maybe the story itself is Caroline in nature. It is entirely up to the reader what they see in it.

Regarding the meaning of the three clocks, that is equally ambiguous. The red clock allegedly measures red time, or should that be "read time", the time that we spend reading while our real life stands still but our body clock ticks on? Just how much time can we spend reading and if that is what it signifies why does the red clock go backwards? Look carefully at that opening hook text and the picture of the three clocks in my avatar. The picture depicts a moment _in_ time while the text describes things happening _over_ time. If one is _in_ and the other _over_ then how can we relate them? Try to reason out which is the white clock and which the black. Can you really tell or do you have misconceptions right from the very beginning? If you didn't fully comprehend the problem that you face right from the very beginning and jump too easily to conclusions then you may soon get lost. It is wise only to move slowly and cautiously forward, for there are many traps ahead. Maybe that is the real reason why the second chapter, yet to come, is entitled "Early misconceptions".

Don't worry. Soon the story will become incredibly boring, unenduringly so in fact. It is after all just about people working in a office as the very first line indicates. Had the clocks been elsewhere then things might have been different, but I can only write about what I know, as most sensible writers do.


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## lala_elianna (Jan 30, 2015)

Count me in as one of your 12 - I'm hooked.

I agree with Qdos. I read the dreamer as 'Alice' all grown up. Satin smooth for others' eyes, while inwardly existing as an itchy mess. Obviously you deal with the fluidity of time, but what about 'souls' having the ability to dip into others' lives? You capture her voice that well...

And of course rcallaci likes it - being the dark poet that he is. 

I look forward to reading more!


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## JustRob (Jan 31, 2015)

lala_elianna said:


> Count me in as one of your 12 - I'm hooked.
> 
> I agree with Qdos. I read the dreamer as 'Alice' all grown up. Satin smooth for others' eyes, while inwardly existing as an itchy mess. Obviously you deal with the fluidity of time, but what about 'souls' having the ability to dip into others' lives? You capture her voice that well...
> 
> ...



I really appreciate your comments, coming from a woman.  It is a challenge for a seventy year old man to portray a twenty year old woman in the first chapter of his first novel, no, more than that. his first attempt at any kind of fiction writing. I have been criticised, not in this forum yet, for inadequate portrayal of my characters, but I think that a writer has the opportunity to portray what is happening inside a character's mind rather than what any external observer could see, so I focus on that. In this case for example the texture of the skin on the young man's hands is more important than anything else about him from this woman's viewpoint. It is no coincidence that I mention hyphephilia, which some critics consider to be purely a psychological aberration, but is literally the love of touching, a fundamental sensation central to human relationships. In the film_ Star Trek: First Contact_ the Borg queen seduces Data by grafting a small patch of human skin onto his arm so that he can experience what it means to be human. I think that scene hits the nail right on the head.

But how do souls touch? The girl observes that she can feel his touch, a sensation that the dreaming soul doesn't experience in the same way. Do we dream of itching? Has anyone ever had an itching nightmare? Can one scratch an itch in a dream? No, I think that souls touch through emotions, feeling the other's state of mind. Far far into the future of my series of novels the ability to sense another person's emotional state through mobile phones is developed. We do it at a distance by observing body language or hearing inflections in speech, by pheromones even maybe, but this is the real thing, first contact of minds. Souls and bodies are pretty loosely connected in my story. The momentary experience during the kiss is the two souls melding with the consequential sensation of a single composite body. For a moment their hearts seem literally to touch and they breathe as one person. The girl cannot gasp because for a moment she has even entrusted the act of breathing to him. It is an ultimate act of commitment and she doesn't even know his name yet.

Is that too romantic an image, total commitment within moments of a first encounter, or just the consequence of meeting someone on the rebound? I can only speak from personal experience. 44 years of happy marriage sprang almost instantly from a first meeting. We met and sat in a pub and talked for hours long into the evening, two minds wrapping around each other inextricably. The next morning she asked herself what she thought of the man that she'd met last night. A voice inside her head told her not even to worry about it because she would marry him.  For my part I had the problem of telling my current girlfriend and giving her the birthday present that I'd already bought for her. That's hard. "I'm sorry dearest but our relationship is over because I've just met my future wife, my destiny."  No, the rebound had nothing to do with it.

I must admit that the concept of the flow of time didn't dawn on me until I was five years old. I suppose that was when I had started school and had to be places at certain times for the first time in my life. Realising that the clock was ticking relentlessly in one direction I had to get my life organised, but how could I do that without my soulmate?  No problem. Within weeks of my realising the situation she was conceived physically and born later that same year. Destiny is a powerful force. Never doubt it. 

Ah, you are an artist, not my skillset at all. I could never handle the art of writing if it involved using a paintbrush. My avatar picture was computer generated by geometry, which is a skill of mine. At school my best ever painting, to my mind, was quite incomprehensible to our art mistress. When asked what it was I replied "a headache" and she understood. I do get spectacular headaches which fill my mind with multi-coloured dragons writhing together, the only time that I have any such visual imagination at all, which is why I am no artist. Our art mistress lived in the art school, in a flat behind a stage at one end of the large hall. In the first morning lesson she would appear on stage in a gorgeous long trailing dressing gown with tea and toast in hand and tell us to busy ourselves while she dressed. She knew how to make an entrance. On the rare occasions when she came to a Sunday chapel service she would appear in endless yards of lace carrying an equally lacy parasol like something straight out of a Parisian novel. She lived her art and was treasured by all the other teachers, mostly the male ones of course.

Dark poetry, you say?  Mine is so dim that nobody has commented on it yet, but then it was an accident or at least a subconscious act. The girl thinks of the nightdress as a tattoo as her raging thoughts are beating a tattoo in her head. If you didn't notice the two verses of tattoo at that point read it again. When I noticed what was happening I had to put in a sentence which would specifically break the rhythm or the whole chapter could have come out in verse. Eventually I may have to write that bit out as stanzas to get a comment, but I didn't want to do so within the prose version. 

I admit that the novel is ambiguous with its rabbit, rabbit-hole, hare and mad top man talking about an endless supply of teacups that never get washed up (all yet to come), apart from the girl in the looking glass, but it's based on the fairy tale of Cinderella, for heavens sake! There's even a whole chapter about a pumpkin and someone is called Buttons on one occasion. Also, bearing in mind that this girl is asleep and something amazing happens when he kisses her, couldn't it be Sleeping Beauty as well? The risk with this forum is that when one reader posts their comments it may influence the way that others see the story, but this story only makes suggestions as to its meaning and whatever one may think it is also_ about something else_. I need to know what readers individually think that is because I've found about seven or eight possibilities so far and am still re-reading it looking for more. The greatest joy in writing is for readers to see something that one didn't consciously put there, like my accidental verses in the tattoo. As the novel is based on a series of dreams that I had I have no idea what actually is in it. I just hope that I haven't bared my entire soul to any reader with a grounding in Freudian analysis. I did send the novel to a man whose wife is a psychologist and he said that they'd read it over the Christmas period, but I haven't heard from them yet. I think that when anyone reads a significant amount of it their heads explode as I seldom hear from any of them again. I'm not sure that I'd make a very good baker.


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## TKent (Jan 31, 2015)

I was really taken into this story. Left me wanting MORE.


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## JustRob (Jan 31, 2015)

TKent said:


> I was really taken into this story. Left me wanting MORE.



Ah, that's tricky. Do you mean more of this story or more of my writing? I wasn't joking; this really is the end of the present story, or to be precise the beginning of the next one which I've still got to rewrite if anyone eventually wants to read it. My first story is an explanation of everything leading up to this point, after which it will all make sense, but only up to a point. The question is whether anyone needs a 180 page explanation.  The entire saga, entitled _The Hermes Culture_ is six half novels of which this is the first.  Just as the first words here are "THE END" the last words in the last novel are "never upon a time." It seems reasonable to me that if time is going backwards in the story then the order of everything is reversed, or is that being too literal?


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## TKent (Jan 31, 2015)

Hey JR,

LOL. Doesn't matter whether it is in the form of a half novel going backwards or forwards, in a sequel or prequel or whatever it may be, just more of this story.


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## JustRob (Jan 31, 2015)

TKent said:


> Hey JR,
> 
> LOL. Doesn't matter whether it is in the form of a half novel going backwards or forwards, in a sequel or prequel or whatever it may be, just more of this story.



I have a small problem there. I claim that my novel is about something else and my wife tells me that I should be doing just that, SOMETHING ELSE. When I've made some suitable offerings at the altar of domestic harmony I'll post the second chapter. Having played the role of a twenty year old girl I play a very young boy next.  At least I've still got one of those lurking just below the surface of my mind from a very long time ago.  The second chapter is short and very sweet, just like him. 

We have a habit that we call "keeping Sunday special" when we ignore the rest of the world and do the things that long-time married couples can easily overlook, like playing games (no not those games, cards or something like that), _actually talking_, putting on our finery and some good music, sitting down to a marvellous dinner and wine, _actually talking_, then sitting by a log fire (if it's cold enough), _actually talking _and finally the rest would have to appear in another forum if it did at all but it doesn't involve much talking.  That's apart from the other sacrifices that are apparently now expected of me.  The problem with being married to an angel is that they have no idea how hard it is to be merely a human.


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## jenthepen (Jan 31, 2015)

I've been looking for questions to all the answers around us all my life. Your ending gives me hope that the beginning might also be around this place somewhere. Wonderful stuff, JR.

jen


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## Meteli (Jul 1, 2015)

I first though the camel driving boyfriend was literally a beduin, I'm too literal at times (and I just met a woman who married a berber man, and though I know there are no camels in his household, there is the association still), but when the haircolours were mentioned, I understood what kind of driving that was. The dream that may be her dream or his dream or for both of them or not a dream and something else, but whatever it is it is reality in itself, and does matter even if it is not made of matter and you cannot bring anything from there in your hand. Actually I'm able to touch many things in my dreams; flower petals, different fabrics, fur of a dog; I feel those. It took time for my parents to notice I need glasses, maybe that is a reason for my other senses to be a bit pronounced. But I'm left with only a memory of the things I touch, though mostly that is common about all life experiences, though we may try to bring souvenirs from our travels. I've never fallen love when dreaming (unless I've forgotten, majority of dreams get forgotten), but I've cried over some when I woke up, because the experiences felt so real.

I also often wonder about my own stories. Where is all that coming from? That is why I do beleive in inspiration, it is a gift, though on the other hand think that the writer often needs to work it to get all of it out with straw stacking our own hides.


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## JustRob (Jul 1, 2015)

Meteli - Thanks for reading this. My writing is very English. The second chapter is somewhere in the same forum but quite different, being the real start of the story.

I have read that nobody ever smells anything in a dream, so can you smell a flower as well as touch it in yours?


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## JustRob (Oct 5, 2015)

Following a recent beta read I've removed my partly completed novel *Never Upon A Time *from the beta reading forum for an overhaul. In particular I'm in the process of rewriting this first chapter, which hasn't been received well in all quarters despite the comments previously made here. I have now completed rewriting the first scene in this chapter from scratch, although all the ideas and facts in it are taken from the existing story to maintain consistency. This scene stands in its own right, so there's no need to refer back to the original chapter unless you want to compare the two versions. The word count for this portion is *just under 1700 words*.

I've now removed this partial version, so please read the full revised version later in the thread.​


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## LeeC (Oct 5, 2015)

I liked this much better in leaving out the abrupt change in narration (if that's the case), but hope the "dream" activity will remain in the first chapter. It establishes the marrow of the storyline approach in it's delightfully confusing and engrossing (to me) way ;-)

Ever the nit picker, The following is all that stood out to me: 



> I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be, although maybe I will if I stay in his shadow.


Maybe just a difference of expression, but would have read better to me as, "I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be, although maybe I will seem so if I stay in his shadow." Or, "I’m not a grey person in any way, although maybe in his shadow I will become so." 



> At first I thought that he saw something in me, but he’s been pricking away my confidence like – like he’s trying to tattoo his own life onto me rather than sharing mine.


Like this, as it'll strike a chord with many. 



> She leaned closer to the mirror to examine Moonlight’s breasts as she did the same with hers.


Understandable and proper, but to me the double "she" is still a hitch in the flow. 



May the pen be with you.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 


*To developing writers*: We all know that the road to accomplished writing skills (unless one is a natural savant) is paved with the books we've read. In this vein I'd suggest studying the smooth, concise, paced flow of Rob's words here and in the short story he posted previously. Of course I'm an odd old fart to be giving advice, but there's a lot of truth in the second quote in my sig ;-)


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## JustRob (Oct 6, 2015)

LeeC said:


> I liked this much better in leaving out the abrupt change in narration (if that's the case), but hope the "dream" activity will remain in the first chapter. It establishes the marrow of the storyline approach in it's delightfully confusing and engrossing (to me) way ;-)



Don't worry. This is just the first half of the chapter, as much as I could put together in one day. Of course it took a lot longer to create the scene. I don't start writing until I've rehearsed every detail in my mind over and over for maybe several days. That way I can concentrate on the writing while I'm doing it, because the details of the story are already laid out in full. There's no way that I could follow a strict writing regime or work to a schedule. I think that if the writing is forced it reads as forced. On the other hand, if it demands to be written then there's a good chance that it will demand to be read. 



> Ever the nit picker, The following is all that stood out to me:



Thanks for beta reading my partially complete novel, Lee. Your consistent nit picking is what's needed. And keep on plugging the Beta Reading Collective. We can examine extracts and principles forever, but it's ultimately how a complete story hangs together that matters and that's the place where that comes to light. And members can read the stories almost for free, of course, as long as they're willing to pick nits along the way. 



> Maybe just a difference of expression, but would have read better to me as, "I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be, although maybe I will seem so if I stay in his shadow." Or, "I’m not a grey person in any way, although maybe in his shadow I will become so."



I edited that sentence several times, even going back and forth between the same wordings. In the end I gave up and moved on. You can't always get it all right in one day. That was one to sleep on. Well spotted, as usual.
EDIT: Life's distractions work as well as sleep. Here's the revised sentence.
"I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be so long as I stay out of anyone's shadow." 



> > At first I thought that he saw something in me, but he’s been pricking away my confidence like – like he’s trying to tattoo his own life onto me rather than sharing mine.
> 
> 
> Like this, as it'll strike a chord with many.



Perhaps we old'uns should leave it to the young ladies to decide on that. I am rather conscious that here I'm writing the innermost thoughts of a young girl in what starts out looking like a YA story, which for an ancient male novice writer who's never had children is hardly the best way to set out my wares, but then life is all about seeing other people's points of view. Becoming a good writer, and also a good member of society, involves constantly practising that. 



> Understandable and proper, but to me the double "she" is still a hitch in the flow.



Damn! I thought that one might slip through unnoticed. Yes, at the beginning I intentionally used "she" and "her" ambiguously so that the text read both as two people interacting and one alone, but once the cat is out of the bag it doesn't work so well, especially here. I know there's a right way to write this. I'll get there eventually. Something else to sleep on. My pillow's going to be very lumpy.
EDIT: Here's the revised sentence with a nice little alliteration (No, not that one.) thrown in at the end.
"She leaned closer to the mirror to examine Moonlight’s breasts, aware that her own were being scrutinised similarly." 



> May the pen be with you.



I do still own and use a fountain pen, although not very often nowadays. I literally enjoy writing, longhand that is. Unlike other writing implements a fountain pen slides over the paper on a thin layer of liquid, exactly like an ice skater. The letters seem like the path of a graceful figure skater going through some complex routine and one can almost feel the inertia and dynamism of their moves as the pen turns and reverses and then leaps up to dot an "i" or cross a "t". Sorry, I got quite carried away there. Typing is more like tap dancing of course, quite different. 

Regarding your final remark to others, I would respond that it doesn't matter what you believe the reputation of a writer to be. Always judge for yourself whether something is well written or not. In my opinion the words written have no absolute value; it's the impression that they create within the minds of the readers that ultimately matters and the most that we can hope to do is get that right in sufficient numbers.

Thanks for the input, Lee. The most difficult criticism that a writer has to comprehend is silence.


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## JustRob (Oct 21, 2015)

This is the fully revised version of chapter one then. It has now expanded to just over *6900 words. *So much for editing to reduce word counts. 

I am now relatively happy with this, so my previous notes to self no longer appear within it. It's worth putting in plenty of time on a first chapter, otherwise all the others may be a waste of time. It is noticeable that virtually nothing happens in it; basically girl meets boy and that's it, but the great advantage of the written word over other media is that the reader can be shown the thoughts, feelings and sensations that a character experiences, so that is primarily what this chapter does. It now leads into the next chapter quite smoothly, which is a relief given that they have almost nothing to do with each other.

There is another completely different way of seeing the chapter, but I won't mention what it is. Readers may read into a writer's words whatever they choose. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Never Upon A Time
**(about something else)

 Three clocks hang on the office wall.
 The white one has stopped. The black one keeps ticking on.
 Above them the red one is going backwards.
 The fairy tale has started.

**Chapter 1*
*Nowhere to begin
*​ 
‘Oh Moonlight, you look as though you’ve been eclipsed.’

Moonlight had no mind to disagree. The flimsy black nightdress that she wore certainly dimmed the radiance of her flesh showing through it despite the fabric’s own sheen. The comparison with that other heavenly body’s occasional experiences was undeniable. 

Lucine, the young woman critically observing her, ran her hands down the curves of her body, feeling the fabric. ‘Well, it certainly feels sensual to match its looks, but then I’d expect James to buy something like this,’ she remarked, ‘Not just sensual but hyphephilial, if there is such a word. There certainly ought to be. I need to know exactly how to use words if I’m to get anywhere with my journalism studies, but words wear clothes to suit the current trend as well, although I doubt that any trend was James’s reason for buying this. I mean, I know that hyphephilia simply means a love of touch, but anyone who’d even heard of the word would assume that it referred to that sexual deviance. Now this nightdress isn’t that deviant, is it? No, just biased towards a man’s fantasies I’d say, and yet it does have that touch. So, do we like it or not? Keep it on or strip it off?’

Moonlight had also run her hands over the fabric, but didn’t answer the question and wasn’t expected to. She would do whatever Lucine decided. That was always the way with them. She was privileged even to have been given a name; most of her kind weren’t. Lucine had named her to reflect her own name, which was unsurprising as Moonlight really was a creature of light, merely Lucine’s own reflection in her bathroom mirror. For Lucine it made sense on occasions when she was alone in her flat to talk to her reflection. There were times when she didn’t want to share her thoughts, even with a friend on the phone, and simply talking to herself or an imaginary friend would have felt odd. Maybe some had a favourite stuffed toy from their early days with whom they still shared their secrets, but not Lucine.

‘Love to touch,’ Lucine said pensively reaching out towards Moonlight, who did the same until their fingers seemed to touch, but Lucine only felt the glass that separated their worlds and as for Moonlight – who could tell? Lucine needed to share her feelings now, maybe more than ever before, but she didn’t want anyone to try to influence her, so Moonlight was her best companion in this.

‘I feel that I’ve been eclipsed as well, you know,’ she confided. ‘James has been eroding my image of myself ever since we met until I really feel that I’m living in his shadow. Look at this hair.’ She ran her hand through the long locks that curled gently on the way to her shoulders. ‘I know that it’s dark blonde, but he’s even tried to change that – not the colour but its description, like it’s even up to him. He’s tried calling it golden, light brown, ash even. He’s stopped short of dirty blonde or dishwater blonde but I don’t put that past him. Ash? That makes me sound grey. I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be so long as I as I stay out of anyone’s shadow. At first I thought that he saw something in me, but he’s been pricking away my confidence like – like he’s trying to tattoo his own life onto me rather than sharing mine.’ 

She ran her hands around the hem of the brief garment where it hung just above her knees. ‘It’s too short, too tight, too – _black _and too much because it’s too little. It isn’t me. It’s what he wants me to be, but I’m not – or I won’t be for him – maybe for somebody else one day, but not him. He’s so confident that I’ll be whatever he wants, maybe even lose enough weight to fit this better, if he ever saw me in it, which he won’t. I’ve never even tried it on before. Well, you would have known; I’d have shown it to you of course. As it is it’s so tight that it might just as well _be_ a tattoo, except that I can peel it off when I want – and him too now. Yes, I’ve finally broken it off – won’t be seeing him again. I just wish that I could peel away the time that I’ve wasted with him as well. I’ll peel his name off him though. I like James, the name I mean. Perhaps I’ll just keep it in my mind until I find another one. Another James or another man without a name? Well you didn’t have one, did you, until I gave it to you? No, I won’t call you James; that would be perverted and we’re not like that, are we? Well okay, we have had our moments here occasionally, but that’s between the two of us.’

She leaned closer to the mirror to examine Moonlight’s breasts, aware that her own were being scrutinised similarly. ‘That clear nylon mesh is so tight that it’s holding your nipples quite flat. Perhaps a little prompting would change that.’ She cupped her breasts in her hands, but then dropped them teasingly saying, ‘What a shame we don’t have a prompter any more. He did have some uses I suppose. You look disappointed. Is that the mood you’re in then? Perhaps we could find a secluded pool in some quiet park and shed these ridiculous garments. We’d certainly both be there if the surface of the water was still enough and we could dive naked into each other and swim with our bodies merging together. That would be far better than this hard glass keeping us apart. Wouldn’t that be gay? No, I meant it in the old-fashioned way, the way that gay young things of the nineteen-twenties would have meant, not their counterparts fifty years later. I told you that even words dress according to the fashion, didn’t I? Admittedly both were carefree, about their new-found freedom to act regardless of the consequences, but we must keep abreast of the times. Speaking of breasts yet again, excuse me while I scratch. It’s okay for you, standing there enjoying the sight, but you can’t feel all these irritating seams on the inside of this thing. Did they have to use so many panels of different materials in it with all this stitching? Trust a man not to think about that, just think about the outside, never mind what’s going on inside. That was James all over – and now I’m itching all over, all over him.’

She paused for a while staring into the mirror. Now she was the one doing the reflecting. ‘Yes, he’s all over. Get used to it. He had an illusion and that was all he really wanted. He didn’t need me, was so complete in himself to his mind. He just had to fulfil that illusion. That’s all this nightdress is, a one-sided illusion. It suits you ideally then. You keep it. I don’t want it. I’ll leave it here for you.’

She went to pull the dress up and off, but then stopped and instead pressed her hands against the mirror. Moonlight did the same and they seemed to lean on each other as though neither could stand alone. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Lucine pleaded, ‘I didn’t mean it like that, calling you an illusion. Don’t be offended. To be honest, who’s to say which of us is real? I can see your lips moving even though I can’t hear what you’re saying through this glass and maybe it’s just the same for you, but we both know, don’t we, sharing our thoughts? How can I possibly prove that my world is any more real than yours? Look, I’ll do a deal with you. You wear the nightdress tonight and go to James; find out how he treats you. If you walk out of your bathroom door now though, then I’ll be stuck with wearing my nightdress, uncomfortable though it is, all night until we meet again here tomorrow morning. That will be my penance for saying what I did to you. For tonight you will be the real person with the boyfriend and I will be the illusion suspended in time waiting for your return. Is that fair? I promise that I won’t cheat. We’ll both know if I do.’

The two figures stood, hands pressed together, and then simultaneously slowly nodded. They stepped back and as one turned to her right to leave by one door the other turned to her left to leave by another. Outside the bathroom Lucine headed for her bed and throwing herself into it gathered her thoughts. Had she gone out of her mind? No, it made perfect sense. Her present feelings about James and the feelings she had with her torso packed into this irritating garment were the same. A possibly sleepless night wrestling with thoughts about both of them, that far too gifted man and this his gift, would leave her in no doubts about her choice by morning. It was time to put herself first, maybe to have the confidence to find a young man with flaws which she could heal, not opt for a man who was so complete in himself that she would add nothing to his life. 

The room was bathed in soft light from the window, not moonlight – she was gone now, off to spend the night in James’s illusions hopefully, taunting him on Lucine’s behalf – but just the general glow from the suburbs sprawling beyond the block of flats where she lived. This small but adequate second floor flat was both her base in reality and her refuge from it. Her parents helped her to pay for it, but nevertheless it gave her a feeling of control over her life, something that she desired. It wasn’t perfect, but perfection wasn’t that desirable to her mind, not since her experience with James’s all too perfect self-image. She looked up at a crack in the ceiling. It had always been there, a familiar imperfection reassuring her of a steady relationship with a ceiling which would never fall in on her life. That was what she needed, not a total crackpot but a man whose personality was just a little crazed, but not enough to fall apart on her. Still thinking about her ludicrous promise to Moonlight, she drifted off to sleep, swinging between anger about the past and optimism about the future, anger about the optimism and past about the future, her body in a nightdress, neither real for now, a promise to keep, a man not to – whatever. 

A bright light in her eyes woke her. It was neither that familiar urban glow nor a sharp beam of moonlight but something that flooded her mind into consciousness. She opened her eyes to see an evenly illuminated crack-free ceiling, so looked around to see where she was. It had to be a dream. She was lying in what appeared to be an enormous green pizza. The surface under her was soft like her mattress but felt more like cheese and a border of something similar surrounded her several feet away. 

‘It must be vegetarian,’ she thought dreamily, contemplating the colour, then, ‘No, that can’t be right, not with me as the meaty topping. That’s pretty evident wearing this nightdress. Well I hope I’m still wearing it – or something. Yes, I can feel the damned thing. I’m sure even sausages must be more comfortable in their skins than this.’ As she gathered her thoughts she realised that a slim long-haired youth was standing over her, his brown curls resting on the shoulders of a neat vivid blue zip-fronted outfit that fitted in all the right places. ‘Hello,’ she thought, pursuing her awakened appetite, ‘Is this the delivery boy? Things are looking up,’ but then doubts intruded into her reverie. ‘This is too vivid for a dream,’ she thought, ‘and he’s no giant to match my pizza, so I’m not sure,’ but her mind was unwilling to accept any other explanation, so she lazily mused, ‘Better ask then. I’d like to know before someone starts slicing.’ The very idea tickled her and she doubted that the event itself would do any more than that. Perhaps somewhere at the back of her fogged mind he was already tickling her to death and consuming her with passion.

‘Am I dreaming?’ she said out loud, if that was possible in a dream. Certainly it was the only thing that she’d intended him to hear.

The slim figure replied, ‘I’m afraid I really couldn’t say,’ adding, ‘but I think I am.’

‘This will never do, wasting time debating ownership of a dream,’ she thought, ‘Perhaps we could share it,’ but then another possibility dawned on her, her promise to Moonlight. ‘Have I actually kept my promise?’ she thought. ‘Have I become an illusion in someone else’s dream? Have I literally taken on her role? What exactly does she get up to when she’s not with me? I never considered that. Just because I gave her that name I never thought that she’d go off moonlighting with – rather appealing young men in their dreams.’ 

The prospect was already growing on her. She needed distraction from the issues of reality and this seemed a pleasant opportunity without consequences. She had a feeling that he could deliver the goods on time and also felt confident that she could fill the role that her nightdress promised of her – just for one night of course. Stretching herself she spread her fingers and pressed them deep into the resilient surface. ‘In that case,’ she hummed lazily, ‘are you dreaming what I’m dreaming?’ but he’d already turned and was walking away over the spongy surface. 

‘No,’ she thought, ‘I’m not having that.’ She stood up carefully, never having walked on a pizza before, and looking down at her bare feet spread her arms to balance as she bounced a little to ensure that it was safe. As she did so she realised that he’d turned back on hearing her remark and was watching her imitating a fledgling testing its wings. She cursed herself for looking so gawky. Her sultry seductress act was barely airborne and already she was in a flap. If it wasn’t his dream but actually hers then it wouldn’t matter though. How was everything around her so crystal clear when nothing was inside her mind? Clearly this ownership issue needed resolving immediately. 

Taking a pace towards him on the rubbery substance she asked, ‘Well, if we’re both dreaming then who decides what happens next?’ Unfortunately in her assumed role she said this in a more sultry tone than intended and it came out sounding wrong – or had she just got it precisely right?

He seemed to consider the matter for a moment and then a worried look appeared on his face as he said, ‘The date – please tell me the date.’

‘What stupid sort of question is that to ask now?’ she thought, ‘I know he’s dreamy but does he have so many appointments in girls’ dreams that he can’t fit me in? I didn’t know the business was so labour-intensive, what with Moonlight holding down two jobs and him with his busy schedule. I thought he could deliver on time but apparently he doesn’t even know what day it is.’ Nevertheless the panicked look on his face persuaded her to humour him, but the date wouldn’t come to her mind either. Usually dreams go undated until they’re over. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I can’t remember the date. Is it that important?’

Maybe it was as he looked at his watch. Perhaps that told him the date. They stood looking at each other for an apparent eternity. It had never occurred to her that it was possible to dream of nothing happening, but nothing was apart from her own thoughts, which strangely seemed quite distinct from what she was dreaming. He seemed like someone she’d always known, but presumably that was simply because he was a figment of her own imagination, which appeared to be working overtime. She couldn’t convince herself that she was merely a figment of his. Perhaps like that nightdress he was a patchwork of pieces of other people known to her sewn together on the inside, in which case maybe he was feeling as uncomfortable as she was. 

‘Well is it?’ she asked again, tiring of a dream where the pause button had apparently been pressed for too long. It wasn’t as though she could nip out and get a coffee in the interval.

To add to her confusion he said something about looking in the calendar for her, which she didn’t understand as she’d never consider her picture appearing in any calendar and most definitely not wearing that nightdress. The idea of hanging on a wall in some grubby workshop revealing far more than just the date was not one that she’d relish, not even in her dreams. She looked again at the blue one-piece outfit that hugged him almost as well as her nightdress clung to her. Was it a jumpsuit – or overalls? The image of a grubby workshop loomed in her mind again but she pushed it aside. She didn’t want to think of him like that if she had the choice. Before she could decide what her choice would be she had none as, without warning or asking, he pulled her against himself and kissed her. She might have felt that at last things were going her way as she closed her eyes but instead she felt something else.

A pins and needles sensation started in her extremities and swept rapidly through her limbs until she couldn’t feel them at all. As he pulled her against his body she kept going as though she were soaking right into him. She could feel the fabric of her nightdress pressed against her back by his hands, but it was the sensual outer surface that she could feel, not the irritating side, as though he were holding the empty garment behind her. At the same time she felt as though her breasts were rubbing against something hard curving around them, but then she could no longer feel any sensations from her skin at all, not even a memory of her abrasive nightwear. What she did feel was her heart pounding strangely with a double beat as though it had split into two separate organs. She thought to open her eyes but all she saw was a black starry sky through which she seemed to be falling. It was as though he had squeezed the very spirit out of her body and it was hurtling through space like moonlight itself. She tried to gasp but her breathing was somehow controlled and steady, beyond her influence as though no longer hers. She mentally closed her eyes again in an attempt to exclude the disorienting vision and sensations. Almost immediately she felt the sensations fade back to more normal ones and on opening her eyes cautiously she discovered that she was simply being held gently in his arms. The postponed gasp came at last and, pulling away from him, she managed to say, ‘You call that a kiss?’ before another genuine gasp of breath prevailed.

‘I haven’t had any complaints before,’ he replied.

‘No, not that, not the kiss, if that’s what it was. I mean all the other strange stuff, the stars and the – squishing together. It felt more like an interstellar heart attack than a kiss. You’re supposed to sweep a girl off her feet and make it seem that the earth moved, not sweep the feet off her, not to mention her arms and legs apparently, and make the earth disappear entirely. Of course standing on this stuff I might not have noticed the earth move, but that was downright excessive.’ 

Even as she spoke she noticed that the feeling returning to the soles of her feet was different now, hard and cold instead of soft and warm. She looked down at a hard grey floor surface and added, ‘but what’s happened to the pizza? My feet are getting cold.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Squishing together? Pizza? Excuse me, I think I missed that part. I was preoccupied with something else for a moment there. You see, I didn’t actually expect to end up under the stars like that either.’

She wrapped her arms protectively around herself and said, ‘Well, if I’d known that we were going outside under the stars I’d have worn something more suitable myself – like my skin at least. It felt like I lost most of it when I fell inside – inside something. Was that the something that distracted you while you were kissing me? In that case you’re excused, but what’s happened to the floor?’

‘I never knew there was an outside,’ he muttered, then added brightly pointing down, ‘but it must have worked,’ as though the disappearing pizza had been a conjuring trick. He looked at his watch yet again and his face fell. ‘My watch isn’t working though. That’s strange.’

She was getting annoyed at his obsession with dates and times. How could she enjoy a leisurely dream with this constant clockwatcher? ‘Working?’ she said, hopping from foot to foot on the chilly floor, ‘Is anything supposed to work in a dream? I don’t expect things to make sense but why are you being so senseless?’

As though transfixed by her rebuke he stood for a moment saying nothing, but his eyes darted around frantically. Was he trying to think what to say or indulging himself in her appearance, or was that rapid eye movement the sign that _he_ was the one asleep, that she was indeed within his dream? An answer came quickly, to her surprise.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this. I was so engrossed in being lecherous that I forgot my manners. Come with me. We should be able to find something more for you to wear.’

More to wear? She was even more confused than ever. After that kiss and now an admission of lechery she didn’t expect such consideration for her modesty. She wasn’t even sure that she’d demanded it – and now that damned nightdress was scratching her again. Never mind more to wear; if only she could take it off, but she’d made a promise to herself what seemed a very long time ago. Nevertheless she imagined herself lying comfortably naked on that soft green surface while he – no, apparently this wasn’t her dream after all. Anyway her oversized pizza had mysteriously disappeared, an opportunity kissed goodbye apparently.

Beckoning her to follow he went through a doorway and she realised that the edge of her pizza had simply been a long green upholstered couch. It ran right around the walls of a circular room broken only by two doorways. They crossed a corridor, which curved around the outside of the room with big picture windows facing into it, and entered another room with a bed and other paraphernalia which looked like it should have been in a hospital. He opened a tall cupboard and said, ‘I thought these would be here. Nothing much has changed apparently. You should find something to fit you.’

In the cupboard hung a row of white dressing gowns and below them were towelling slippers, presumably for the use of patients. Realising that she was getting cold she gratefully found the right sizes and put them on. As she looked down at the simple flip-flops on her feet and shrugged the dressing gown on over her fantasy garment, the unfamiliar feel of the fluffy fabric against her skin reminded her of the startling reality of the whole experience. Tying the gown around herself she felt that she had wrapped the carefree spirit of Moonlight in the far more rational mind of Lucine. Furthermore, the feel of her blood pulsing through her rapidly warming flesh told her that she also had a body of flesh and blood in an all too physical world, but still she couldn’t accept that entirely. Nevertheless dark thoughts strayed into her mind and she tried to think rationally. She reflected on the odd experience when he kissed her and the discrepancy in her surroundings after, as though she’d lost some time between. Now there was this medical facility and she wondered whether she’d been drugged. Everything was too sharply detailed to be a dream and thinking and talking were quite distinct from each other. This was too much like reality to be taken so lightly, but if more seriously, how, where, why and who? 

While she wrestled with shadows of possibilities he walked back across the round room and looked at a darkened doorway across the corridor beyond the one opposite, apparently lost in thought himself. If he was her captor for real he wasn’t too concerned about what she did, although at present her choices were limited. She decided to follow his lead and speak her mind honestly and directly, if only to gauge his reactions. Hurrying after him she said, ‘I’m scared. I need to know what’s happening.’

He turned to face her with the hint of a frown creasing his brow. ‘Please don’t be afraid. There’s nothing here that can hurt you and I certainly won’t. You’re more likely to harm yourself by feeling like that. You may feel scared but I’m feeling confused at present. How about we compromise and both feel curious. Don’t you feel curious?’ He smiled as he said this as though he’d intended the ambiguity and she couldn’t help smiling too. Evidently reassured by this he went on, ‘Look, I need to check some things. Could you just wait here for a moment and then I’ll try to explain.’ 

He walked away into the darkened room leaving her to share in his confusion instead of being scared alone. A little light filtered into the room from the corridor but she heard metallic sounds and curses as he blundered around. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ she thought, ‘but evidently he’s no cat.’ She found the humour reassuring and chose to postpone rationality until it had something on which to feed. Nevertheless she doubted that anyone in her dreams would use the sort of language that he was currently, the first sign of roughness is his manner that she’d noticed. The nascent journalist in her diverted her thoughts of language, but an animal’s fear of fate still prevailed. ‘What’s sauce for the goose,’ she thought, feeling sad for the goose, ‘It seems that he’s also likely to harm himself feeling around like that, unable to take a proper gander.’ Yes, humour helped.

He soon emerged again saying, ‘Nothing’s working, not even the emergency lighting. That’s really peculiar. We’ll have to go upstairs. Perhaps we’ll find the answer there. Will you come with me?’

He pointed out a staircase at the end of the corridor and she followed him to it wondering what other choice he thought she had. Feeling a little foolish, but still believing that honesty might produce answers, she said, ‘Please tell me honestly. Is this a dream or is it really happening?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘Doesn’t anything happen in your dreams then? No, it’s not a dream and it isn’t happening, but I think it’s real.’ He rapped his knuckles on the wall of the staircase, which was painted with large fish against an aquamarine background. The mural extended all the way up the staircase on both sides like a tunnel through an aquarium. The fish seemed to stare in surprise at him standing there rapping on the wall of their world, a creature from another place that they couldn’t comprehend. He shook his hand and she saw that it had an angry graze on it, possibly from an earlier close encounter in that room. He grinned saying, ‘It certainly feels real. I don’t suppose that helps though, does it, if it isn’t happening?’

‘No,’ she said, staring back at the fish with just as little comprehension. ‘How can something be real if it isn’t happening?’

‘I mean that everything here is normal. The things that seem to happen here are just as you’d expect. If you miss a step you’ll fall down the stairs and injure yourself, so be careful in those slippers. It wouldn’t matter much though. Virtually nothing matters here, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Here, take my hand.’

She’d given up seeing him as her captor, so she slipped her hand into his and felt it close and stop with a gentle grip, but his fingers felt as rigid as though she were hand in hand with a marble statue. His flesh was smooth but hard as though he spent his time handling heavy objects, maybe just working out, but the texture didn’t suggest that he was involved in rough labour. No, he didn’t strike her as a rough man at all, apart from some understandably coarse language elicited by pain earlier. If this was a dream then every cell in her body seemed to be contributing to it, and why was she assessing him in a way that she’d only do in real life? She had to continue pressing him for answers harder than he was pressing her as they started to climb the stairs. 

‘That kiss wasn’t what I expected. That wasn’t normal. Something weird definitely happened,’ she said.

‘I thought you were asking me about this place, not that one,’ he said, studying each fish that they passed. 

‘That place, what place? Is there a difference then ? Have I been somewhere else as well?’ she asked, hoping for a revelation.

‘No, well yes, sort of. Look, give me a chance. I can’t tackle questions like that halfway up a staircase. I’m only halfway into this myself, still trying to understand what’s going on, but I do understand how you must feel.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘You’re wondering whether you’re really here. Okay then, for starters are you conscious of being here?’

‘Of course I am. I wouldn’t be worried about it if I wasn’t,’ she retorted.

‘Right, so are you conscious of being anywhere else as well?’

‘No, not if I’m here. That’s ridiculous, but then I shouldn’t be here anyway.’

‘Ah, but we haven’t established that you are yet, have we? Okay, so do you think you might be unconscious somewhere else?’

‘What, you mean in a coma or something?’

His eyes widened into a stare which seemed to go right through her. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, ‘I wonder if I’m in a coma and imagining this. Maybe I did concentrate too hard.’ His grip tightened as he said, ‘You are real, aren’t you? I mean right now, not back there. I know you were then, but now – ’

She stared back at him uncomprehendingly. His concern seemed quite genuine, so she tried to reassure him. ‘Of course I am. Oh come on. We can’t both play this game. You seem to know your way around here. Can’t you tell whether this is real, even if it isn’t happening?’

The only way to describe his eyes, which were now gazing steadily at her with no hint of movement but maybe a little sadness, was that they were hazel, if only because she couldn’t decide exactly what colour they were, but she could see every detail in them so clearly and – he was talking again now. 

‘The best way that I can explain it is that I know how this place used to be, but maybe not exactly how it is now. Most of it, but not all, seems the same. You could say that I’ve been here before, but I don’t have a precise explanation for how I got here now except that I wanted to come – and to bring you with me. To be honest I wanted to find the time to get to know you and apparently I have somehow. If you think you’re confused you should see things from my side, but I really can’t explain it yet. Sometimes only knowing the half of it doesn’t help. That’s why I don’t want to rush into trying to explain any of this to you. All I can say is that this is more than a dream but less than reality.’

‘What’s more than a dream but less than reality? There’s nothing in between those two.’

He paused for only a moment before replying, ‘But isn’t that how we plan our lives, dreaming of what we want to do and then making it a reality? Somewhere in between there are things that might possibly become reality or already are. We don’t always know which is which. Sometimes we plan ahead, rehearsing the possibilities in our minds. Maybe that’s how we should see this, as a rehearsal for something that we might want to happen, but as I said it isn’t happening now. I’m absolutely sure of that. Look, we’re standing on a staircase halfway between where we were and where we’re going. This really is nowhere to start explaining any of it, even though I want to.’

She had to accept his point as they continued to ascend but, unable to climb in silence, she asked, ‘But how did I ever get into this – more than a dream? Did you do that?’

The fish must have lost their appeal to him now as he just looked down at the steps. ‘Not in the first place, no. I think people usually have an idea why they come themselves. Did you have a reason for coming that you can think of? Anything troubling you at all?’ As he spoke he kept looking at the steps, maybe not wanting to make the question too personal by looking her in the eyes.

This was getting weird, someone in what could well be a dream asking her why she was having it. Perhaps it was her own subconscious self-analysis after all and she should go along with it. In any case, if it was a dream she would never meet him again and surprisingly that bothered her. Either way she’d already opted for honesty, so said, ‘No, I don’t have any concerns now that I’ve split up with my boyfriend. Actually I was looking forward to the possibility of starting afresh with someone different – ’ 

Her voice trailed off as the situation dawned on her. He was as different as she could imagine. She wanted a relationship where she could keep control of her life and he’d just said that nothing that happened here mattered at all. Not only had she realised the implication but she’d effectively told him as well. By then they’d reached the top of the staircase where it opened onto a peculiar looking room, but she was still too engrossed in her thoughts to pay much attention to it. ‘Hold on,’ she said, ‘This is starting to make too much sense. Honestly, how can I tell whether you’re even real?’

He was looking around the room, but didn’t seem to be particularly surprised about its bizarre appearance. ‘Smaller than I expected,’ he said, ‘They’ve made some changes.’ Then he turned to her and said, ‘Oh yes, I’m very real and so are my feelings. Maybe I’m not coming up to your expectations. Does that prove anything, the fact that I’m a disappointment to you? Probably not. Now you’ll think you dreamed me up to criticise in place of your boyfriend. Okay, if that’s what you need go ahead. It wouldn’t be fair to disillusion you. Nobody should have their illusions shattered.’

She felt that she’d just shattered his and tried to soften her approach. ‘Okay, so maybe I was partly responsible for coming here regardless of how real it is. If so then how do I get back – to complete reality I mean?’ she said, quickly adding, ‘if I want to, that is.’

He looked crestfallen and said, ‘We finish that kiss and then I send you back – where were you before you met me?’

Raising her eyebrows she said, ‘Funnily enough I was asleep in bed. There aren’t many other places I’d be in a nightdress like this. I have been to pyjama parties in the past, but never in this.’

He grinned. ‘Let me know if you do and I’ll be there. You looked exquisite in it. Do you really want to go back then? Back to what, to sleep, perchance to find a better dream? How many ways can you find to offend me? Or do you think more beauty sleep could make any improvements, because I don’t.’

She felt assaulted by the oddly eloquent compliment. She also felt that she herself could have created it with its shades of Shakespeare and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but she let that thought slip. ‘Wait, what do you mean, finish the kiss?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his grin dropping to sad resignation, ‘That never really happened either, but even things that don’t happen must end. You want this to end as well, don’t you? I’m disappointed. If it ends then we'll never meet again. For a moment I thought there was something –’ something he couldn’t describe apparently.

She couldn’t describe it either, but she also knew that it existed and she couldn’t see any harm in playing along for a while longer. ‘What if I did stay a while, if only to get some answers? What would we do?’

‘Look for them and maybe decide how long a while it is. I’ve found the time but I don’t know how much yet and I don’t know how safe it is to be here.’

‘Safe? You mean that we could be in danger? But you said that nothing here mattered.’

He rubbed his chin with his free fist as though he’d said too much, but explained, ‘Danger can be unpleasant even if it doesn’t matter, in the long run that is. It’s a bit like a visit to the dentist I suppose. No matter how much you suffer at the time you know that it will end soon enough. That’s the sort of danger that I meant. Nowhere is entirely safe and as that’s exactly where we are we don’t really have to worry. I do know what I’m talking about even if you don’t get it yet. I’m an engineer, well I like to think that I am, not some mad scientist. I’m really quite safe, only likely to confuse you with what I say, but not lock you away while I play music on my mighty organ. That would just be too melodramatic, even here. This place doesn’t even have an organ. Somebody used to have a mouth-organ but he soon got unpopular as you can imagine. He used to be called inharmonica man because he played so many wrong notes. You’re not imagining this though and neither am I, but somebody must have and that’s what puzzling me.’ 

An engineer, that explained his strong smooth grip, but before she could think any more about his grip, his eyes, his confusion, his gentle attitude and a lot more besides something startling happened. In complete contradiction of his claim the unusual room before them filled with thunderous organ music and they stood staring at each other in amazement. She recognised the piece immediately, as well as its significance. It was Widor’s Toccata and she’d heard it played at the end of several of her friends’ weddings. It was so loud that she could barely hear her own thoughts, let alone say anything to him. The high notes flew around like a flock of trapped birds beating at her head while the bassline seemed to be shaking the walls with their startled looking fish. 

‘This is not happening,’ she thought, but apparently it was. ‘He isn’t real,’ she thought, but she wished he was. ‘I need to know,’ she thought, but she already guessed that there was a great deal that she needed to know before any of it made sense and that would take time. ‘I don’t have the time for any of this,’ she thought, but he’d said that he’d found the time for her. How can anyone find the time, or the date? Where can one look for those things – except maybe into his eyes? It was no good trying to think. Her mind was being assaulted by the music, no not music, not that loud, more like – 

Somewhere that journalist inside her was still endeavouring to find honest words, words that didn’t dress to suit a style and she’d just found one. No, this wasn’t merely music but a _cacophony_ despite its harmony and when it ceased perhaps she’d discover the truth, all the truth about him – and the rest of course if she had to.


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## LeeC (Oct 21, 2015)

Alright, now I like this first chapter in total. It's a layered, intriguing beginning that flows the reader into the story without distractions. Keep in mind though, that having read beyond this that I'm already aware of the circles within the circles, and the interjected layering of not only story but meanings. So fresh eyes might be more confused, which isn't necessarily bad. It's the kind of story that one has to wait to catch up to, yet contradictorily feels like slow motion. 

One thing I did notice in this rewrite of the first chapter is that it seems to go on a bit, as in maybe too much said or too wordy, but that at least in part could be attributed to already having read beyond. Even so I didn't get that feeling in the following chapters.

Another aspect of take here is that our manner of conveyance differs. Where you might use a paragraph to ensure you fully get your thoughts across, I might say the same in one sentence. Which is best in any given situation depends of course. In this case, to me the storytelling might be improved by picking up the pace a notch. 

As one very small example, I might rewrite this quote as follows.



> She could feel the fabric of her nightdress pressed against her back by his hands, but it was the sensual outer surface that she could feel, not the irritating side, as though he were holding the empty garment behind her.



"She could feel the fabric of her nightdress as he did, not the irritating side." 

Too much hand holding of the reader can be distracting. One of the most difficult things for a writer to accomplish is to par down a story, without loosing its intricacies or diminishing the plot and/or characters ;-) 

So all in all I think it's a great first chapter, with the caveat arising from our differing styles.


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## JustRob (Oct 21, 2015)

Thanks for reading this Lee. I accept that it might seem wordy, but that may be because I try to be pedantically accurate when I'm not being intentionally ambiguous, as is often the case. This chapter has such a heavy payload of information connected with later ones that it's difficult for me to justify what I've written to anyone who hasn't read the whole story. Nobody has yet because I haven't even written it all. That's not quite true as one person has read the original draft that goes way beyond the chapters that I currently offer to readers, but that was only a rough draft now scrapped.

To demonstrate my quite infuriating pedantry using your example:



LeeC said:


> As one very small example, I might rewrite this quote as follows.
> 
> 
> 
> ...



My version clearly indicates that she feels the material against her back whereas yours could be taken to mean that she shares the sensation that he has in his hands. In fact, as no other part of his body is directly touching the material her sensation is unique to her even though it seems quite impossible as explained. I wouldn't want to lose the essential sense of incongruity to one of ambiguity here by shortening it. That doesn't mean that there aren't places where I could make cutbacks, but I'll have to find them myself to avoid explaining every nuance of the text in its defence, so I do take your point in general. As you say it is a matter of style and having read some of your own work I like yours. 

It is probably inevitable that we write how we read and adopt the style of writers whose works we like. I have read one thousand page paperbacks and generally read very fast, so verbosity and word counts aren't an issue for me although I appreciate that they might be for other readers. Hence I find it difficult to sacrifice meaning for brevity in my writing even though it might seem desirable.


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## TataSweets44 (Jun 16, 2016)

I loved reading this! You have caught my attention and I can't wait to see how this continues. As someone who lives in their head (my own dream world) your description of their "in-between", I'm sure that's the place I've rotated in and out of for the past 20 years lol.


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## JustRob (Jun 27, 2016)

TataSweets44 said:


> I loved reading this!



Sorry, I almost missed your comment as I've been on holiday. Thanks for your kind words, but even though this is the first chapter it is actually a preview of a scene that takes place much later in the story. In fact in the currently available version of the first part of my novel on my website mentioned below the scene is at the very end, so the reader doesn't discover what happens next, only how the meeting came about. To find out how the story continues into deeper fantasy you'd have to read the original draft of the whole novel, which is also on the website, but I still have to rewrite the second half of it, which is quite sketchy there as I was only trying to assess the potential length of the whole story. Both versions are freely accessible on the website, the later one in various formats.

The interesting aspect, at least for me to write, is that the same scene is re-enacted later in the story but from the young man's viewpoint, so the reader can see both sides of the encounter and understand their mutual confusion. It was a good opportunity to exploit POV fully.

I should point out that the reason why I am hesitating to rewrite the second part of the novel is that the couple's developing relationship is extremely intimate there, albeit in a fantastic way, but I don't want to give anything away.


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## TataSweets44 (Jun 27, 2016)

JustRob said:


> Sorry, I almost missed your comment as I've been on holiday. Thanks for your kind words, but even though this is the first chapter it is actually a preview of a scene that takes place much later in the story. In fact in the currently available version of the first part of my novel on my website mentioned below the scene is at the very end, so the reader doesn't discover what happens next, only how the meeting came about. To find out how the story continues into deeper fantasy you'd have to read the original draft of the whole novel, which is also on the website, but I still have to rewrite the second half of it, which is quite sketchy there as I was only trying to assess the potential length of the whole story. Both versions are freely accessible on the website, the later one in various formats.
> 
> "Hey! It's fine I understand completely and it was no problem I enjoyed every bit of it! I'll have to make my way over there soon!"
> 
> ...



"I can understand the hesitation when you've written something that you like, but don't want to change even though you know it needs changing (maybe to fit the rest of your story). I'm going through something quite similar with a re-write of my own novel."


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## JustRob (Jun 27, 2016)

TataSweets44 said:


> "I can understand the hesitation when you've written something that you like, but don't want to change even though you know it needs changing (maybe to fit the rest of your story). I'm going through something quite similar with a re-write of my own novel."



It isn't that I will be changing the story but expanding on it. I never really change anything in the lives of my characters, just choose which parts to include in the story. The first chapter was unusual in that respect. My problem with the second part of the novel is the evolution of the relationship between the couple. This is a very intimate thing and I don't want to place the reader in the position of being merely a voyeur. However, the interplay of their minds is inevitably accompanied by interplay of their bodies and making this playful, romantic, realistic and fantastic all at once is a challenge. It is however a very enjoyable challenge to tackle, so I am taking my time over it. The first draft did actually cover this aspect quite well, should you happen to read it, but I have plans to explore the relationship even more deeply in the rewrite.


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## TataSweets44 (Jul 6, 2016)

JustRob said:


> It isn't that I will be changing the story but expanding on it. I never really change anything in the lives of my characters, just choose which parts to include in the story. The first chapter was unusual in that respect. My problem with the second part of the novel is the evolution of the relationship between the couple. This is a very intimate thing and I don't want to place the reader in the position of being merely a voyeur. However, the interplay of their minds is inevitably accompanied by interplay of their bodies and making this playful, romantic, realistic and fantastic all at once is a challenge. It is however a very enjoyable challenge to tackle, so I am taking my time over it. The first draft did actually cover this aspect quite well, should you happen to read it, but I have plans to explore the relationship even more deeply in the rewrite.



Oh, I see. Well I'm sure it will be all that you want it to be when you're finished. It's good that you're taking your time the best work comes when it isn't rushed.


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## Jay Greenstein (Jul 15, 2016)

> THE END – that was it, the only end possible to this story.


When you read this you begin reading with context because it's your story. But what about the reader who just arrived? For them the term "this story," means the one they're reading. But because you provide no context _for the reader,_ the line is meaningless as they read. Yes, you clarify, but why not write it in a way that it provides context as-we-read?





> Her straw-stacking camel-driver of a boyfriend was history.


Given that we don't know where we are, who we are, or what's going on, what can "her" mean to the reader, at this point? Remember, your reader can neither hear nor see you, so the "voice" they hear in their head is devoid of all trace of emotion. Given that, and from a reader's viewpoint they're being given facts when they came to be entertained.

Story doesn't lie in the details of what happened. That's history, and history is boring because there's no emotional content. Story lies in the hearts and minds of the characters living the story.

There's another problem we face, which is that the words we speak will probably not mean quite the same thing to the reader as they do to us, simply because your reader will have a different background, education, age group, and maybe gender. so the only way to be certain that every reader gets the same meaning is to make them know the events _as the protagonist knows them_. And how much time did your English teachers spend teaching you how to do that?

The answer to that is that they didn't, because that knowledge is of use only to fiction writers. And like any profession, it's part of a body of knowledge that only people in the field require. So of course, if we want to write like a pro we have to know what the pros do. In other words, digging into the craft of the fiction writer is something that will pay huge dividends, if only because we'll learn what doesn't work, and avoid it.

So it's not a matter of good or bad writing, or talent. It's having the necessary tools, which is the learned part of the profession. And a great resource in acquiring that knowledge is the local library system's fiction writing section. My personal suggestion is to seek the names, Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover.

With a bit of professional knowledge guiding your presentation, who knows how far you'll go?

Hang in there, and keep on writing.


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## JustRob (Jul 16, 2016)

Jay, thanks for your comments, but did you read my 2015 rewrite of this chapter later in the thread here? If not I would appreciate your views on it. The original, and certainly its opening, was mostly written in 2011 and never to my satisfaction. Nevertheless I would like to try to set out the thinking behind those opening words, so here goes.



> THE END – that was it, the only end possible to this story.



In the first place I used the words "THE END" here as a gimmick. As a complete novice with no serious intention of becoming a good writer my novel is very much an experiment in bending the rules to better understand them. The opening words are very important, so I chose the most unsuitable words that I could think of and then attempted to redeem them as an exercise in writing.

The words were also a warning to anyone contemplating reading the story that they ought to review their decision immediately before getting in too deep. With the quality of my writing that really was the best place for a reader to stop reading, so I was being totally honest.

It was also an indication that the story ended right back where it started. In fact this chapter and the one at the end of what I originally envisaged as the complete story both cover the same event from different viewpoints.

The words "THE END" at the very beginning also relate to the significance of the story's title. The last words of the last chapter of the last book in the planned trilogy read " ... never upon a time." In other words this entire story about time going backwards as well as forwards starts and ends with the opposite words to what would normally be expected. This was just one of many deeply hidden Easter eggs in the text but unfortunately it has now been broken by my rewrite. Oh well, you can't make a novelette without breaking Easter eggs.

Apart from any subtext, the phrase "this story" is to my knowledge a valid forward reference to what follows immediately. The statement is that something has ended as it only could and the reader is about to be told exactly what that was.  



> Her straw-stacking camel-driver of a boyfriend was history.



That is the story that has now ended. No more of it will be told except in passing. There was, and still is presumably, a woman who has broken up with her boyfriend. From the expressive phrase that she uses to think about him she is certainly emotional about it. The flowery turn of phrase that she employs could just be myself showing off or it could be signalling the fact that she is in fact studying to be a journalist and practising her own use of language, but that is another Easter egg to be discovered later. It certainly implies that she has already given him every chance to redeem himself but he hasn't chosen to do so. I think that the bulk of that information is all within the words written and not just my mind.

I was told by a university tutor in English literature that Oscar Wilde (I hope I got that right) said that a story was only worth reading if it was worth reading more than once, so I wrote a story which only truly rewarded the reader if they did read it more than once. That is another reason why the story follows the words "THE END", because anyone reaching the end of the story is then prepared to start reading and appreciating it properly. Yes, I know that is not the way to get readers, but it is the way to keep the ones that I really want. Some people read a story to see inside the author's mind. My angel said that it was madness for anyone to try that with my work. So anyway, that is why these Easter eggs are so obscure and impossible to spot on a first reading.

That historical reference to her former boyfriend is a key aspect of the story even though he never appears in it except as a ghostly memory for a split second, so I was in fact providing a context for the story to proceed very concisely. Whatever one writes in the opening to a story will most likely be based on things that the reader doesn't know yet. In fact the reader's ignorance is the hook that draws them into the story to my mind.

I hope you don't mind me explaining those opening lines, especially as I have scrapped them now anyway, so am not refuting your assessment of them. Whether my reasons for writing what I do work or not, they do exist and are tightly folded into the story as a whole. I have written elsewhere, not in WF, that I weave a yarn rather than spinning it. I wrote the story for my own amusement, but felt that others might want the opportunity to read it as well, so made it available. I am a self-declared erratic here in WF in the geological sense, i.e. a rolling stone that turned up in the wrong place, never having had any intention of becoming a writer, but that is all explained (equally badly, I am told) on my website.


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## Jay Greenstein (Jul 16, 2016)

> ‘Oh Moonlight, you look as though you’ve been eclipsed.’


So here, someone unknown, in an unknown location, speaks in response to no known motivation, with unknown intent. For you it works because there are no unknowns. For you the line points to images, memory, and story, all stored in your mind. But for a reader? The line points to images, memory, and story, all stored in *your* mind. See the problem? Both context and intent dribble from the words at the keyboard. So you must take that into account as you write, and provide a self-guiding trail for the reader. That's why writing teachers stress that the three things the reader needs, quickly, on entering any scene, is: Where am I? Whose skin am I wearing? What's going on?





> Moonlight had no mind to disagree.


Without a setting, and knowledge of the speaker's intent—either from the speaker's or the listener's viewpoint, the line has no context. And it matters not in the least that you clarify who's speaking and what they mean later because you cannot retroactively provide context. But look at how the reader's perception of the scene would change were the opening to have said:

Lucine shook her head, laughing, as she studied the sheer nightgown. '‘Moonlight, I have to say, it looks as though your moons are shining through that cloud you're wearing.’

Stated like this, the reader has context, as they read the line. They know who's speaking what motivated them to speak. I also changed the line because moonlight can't be eclipsed, and what she's wearing is sexy, which opaque nightdresses usually aren't. But that's a personal touch. My point is that by having the reader knowg what's going on, the line is meaningful as-it's-read.

In general, and throughout this chapter, you, the storyteller are talking to the reader, explaining the situation. But that can't work on the page because we can't hear _how_ you tell the story. Print doesn't reproduce that. So while you can tell us how a character speaks a line you can't tell the reader how you do. Cadence is missing, as is intensity, those meaningful pauses for breath, the shouts and whispers, and more. Also missing is the way you smile and frown to illustrate the mood, the eye movement and the raised brow, along with the gestures that visually punctuate. What's left? Only the words, spoken as the punctuation and words seem to indicate _to the reader_. Have your computer read the story to you and you'll hear it.





> ‘I know that it’s dark blonde, but he’s even tried to change that – not  the colour but its description, like it’s even up to him. He’s tried  calling it golden, light brown, ash even. He’s stopped short of dirty  blonde or dishwater blonde but I don’t put that past him. Ash? That  makes me sound grey. I’m not a grey person in any way and never will be  so long as I as I stay out of anyone’s shadow. At first I thought that  he saw something in me, but he’s been pricking away my confidence like –  like he’s trying to tattoo his own life onto me rather than sharing  mine.’


You took 111 words to say 'He deliberately provokes me.' Seems a little overdone. :icon_cheesygrin: Report the essence of the conversation, not the conversation.

That aside, because you're reporting the story instead of having her live it as we watch, you're focused on making the reader know the details of the story. So, while you have quote marks, this isn't her speaking. First, think of yourself. Have you ever had a conversation where you simply droned on with no hesitations, no rephrasing or stops for examples, and no interruptions from the one you're talking to? In reality, wouldn't the other woman interrupt to say, "I see what you mean. But...'

In life we pause to think, and we interact. Can she, or the one she's with seem real if they talk _at_ each other. And in the end, does knowing more than that he does it matter? Do we need a list of the colors he's called her hair to understand how she feels? Probably not. I mention it because every word that doesn't move the plot, set the scene, or develop character serves only to slow the narrative and dilute the impact of the action.

I how how hard you've worked on this, and how much of yourself you've put into it. So my saying this is like calling a favorite child ugly, and I hate to do it. But here's the thing: it's not about good or bad writing. Nor is it about talent or potential as a writer. Nothing I've said has to do with anything but the craft of writing, the learned part of the profession—something you can learn as easily as anyone else. 

We leave our school days thinking we learned how to write, and that those skills are universal. But are they? Don't we have to learn a lot more if we decide to become journalists, playwrights, or film writers? Each medium has limitation and strengths that influence _how_ we must write for it. Film, for example, is a parallel medium. In a glance we know where we are in time and space. We know a great deal about the characters on screen, so far as age, social status, mood, even political views as based on dress and appearance choices. At-a-glance. But the page is a serial medium, so each of those must be spelled out, one at a time. And that means we have to manage the order and importance of what we choose to present, because a picture is worth a thousand words and that's a static picture. Film shows twenty-four of them each second. No way in hell can we match that with 250 words on a standard manuscript page.

Obviously there are ways around that problem because people write fiction every day. So my point is that to write like a pro you need to know what the pro knows. Reading fiction won't teach us to write because we see only the finished and polished product, with no way of knowing what decisions were made in creating it to make it flow well. To do that we need the process. As Mark Twain so wisely observed, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” And we all come to writing fiction with a whole lot of "just ain't so," because our schooldays writing skills are designed to make us useful to employers, which is why we spent so much time writing essays and reports.

As an example, this article presents of one of the strongest ways I know of for presenting a strong viewpoint, and placing the reader into the scene in real-time. Chew on it till it starts to make sense. It can make a huge difference in your writing. I recommend the book it's based on, because like the article's author, I feel that the book deserves to be in every writer's library. There is a book, nearly as good, though, that's an easier read. Debra Dixon's, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict is a lot like sitting down with Deb after saying, 'So tell me what I need to know about writing fiction." For someone in your situation that might make more sense

Neither book will make a best selling writer of you. That's your job. But they can give you the necessary tools, and the knowledge of what they can do for you.

Hang in there, and _keep on writing_.


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## JustRob (Jul 19, 2016)

Thanks genuinely for your copious comments Jay. I don't have time just now to take them all in but one thing that you mention really hits the nail on the head, that "you cannot retroactively provide context". That is actually part of the essence of the story, which is why it is subtitled "About something else". Everything about the superficial story is false. If the reader senses a lack of context then they may be in a frame of mind to understand the "something else" analogies although it took even me a long time. That is why the story is just one section of an entire explanatory website. 

The website explains, in my same rambling way unfortunately, how the story apparently came to be written from fragments of information recalled from my future. Naturally they had no immediate context, being so fragmented, so I wrapped them up in this story back in 2011 to give them substance. The important thing was that they went on written record before the events to which they referred. Only now am I able to unravel that fiction to reveal the underlying facts, which seem, at least to me, remarkable. 

As this story literally has no identifiable beginning in reality it is no surprise that I could never find a logical place to begin it even fictionally. Constrained by the incomprehensible need to preserve information that I didn't even know existed I made the best job of it that I could. Even with this recent rewrite, strangely prompted close to an actual eclipse of the moon just as in 2011, I sense that "something else" may be present in the words.

This is truly weird stuff, hardly suitable for conventional critique, but it is in that respect the exception that "proves" the rule from a literary viewpoint, so I am happy for it to be assessed as such.

Yes, I thoroughly agree that what the words signify to me are evidently the most important aspect, but perhaps you can understand why. If they are also entertaining to others then that is an unexpected bonus.

I'll take your comments on board although currently I am spending more time dealing with correspondence on the underlying subject matter, retroactive thought and its deficiencies as you rightly observed, than the literary aspects.


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## Jay Greenstein (Jul 19, 2016)

> If the reader senses a lack of context then they may be in a frame of  mind to understand the "something else" analogies although it took even  me a long time.


No, they won't.

Suppose you read the line, "I remember that time in Mexico, with Charlie. The chicken was probably never the same after that." It tells you nothing useful because you have no context. So the only thing you can do is store it for possible later use. But the reader is with you for one reason: to be entertained. So the only thing the line does is slow the narrative and bore the reader. And as someone who owned a manuscript critiquing service I can tell you with certainty that if you bore the reader, or confuse them for a single line while they're deciding if they want to buy it or put it back on the shelf (three pages or less, on average) they will stop reading.

You're making the mistake of thinking the reader comes to us for "story." They don't. They come for moment-to-moment reading pleasure we give them. Unless you make them _want to,_ they won't turn to page two. They come for an emotional experience, so talking about things as an external storyteller, can't work, if for no other reason than that storytelling is a _performance art._ On the page the reader can't hear your voice, filled with emotion as it is when you read it. They hear a monotone. Have your computer read it to you and you'll get what a reader hears.

On the page the reader can't see the expressions you use to illustrate the mood of the characters. Hang gestures, with their visual punctuation, are also gone.

Here's the thing: All the writing skills we learned in our school days—all of our training in how to approach the act of writing—are meant to make us useful to our employers. That's why we wrote so many reports and essays. And nonfiction techniques will not support the presentation of fiction. Fiction, like screenwriting and journalism have their own set of techniques and knowledge that must be mastered.


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## JustRob (Jul 20, 2016)

Jay, I've had time to read your comments properly now. I agree that it is a weird chapter and deliberated about whether I was justified in calling it chapter one. However, as it describes an incident that occurs much later in the story from a different perspective I had to. The title "Nowhere to begin" is literally true. The real story doesn't even really begin in the second chapter either. The "real" story may not even begin in the second half of the novel or the novel after that. Everything is a beginning of sorts though. 

If I had entitled this piece of text "Preface" would it have changed anything? Would that have answered the reader's questions about who they were, where they were and what was happening? In this piece their surrogate, Lucine, has to act in their place because they are as fictional to me as anyone else. I have often mentioned the importance of defining one's target reader, so providing a temporary surrogate in this way seems reasonable. Perhaps she is an inadequate mantle for them to wear. It is skimpy, badly fitting and irritating through being a patchwork of many parts. Most of all it is intolerable because it was provided with the apparent intention of imposing the writer's image of the reader onto them. The most that the writer can expect is that they accept it for a short while, if only to assure themselves that their first impressions are borne out. Later, perhaps too much later, the writer in the guise of the forthcoming protagonist apologises and offers the reader a choice of more comfortable but featureless mantles from which they can choose something that fits. For the time being that is sufficient.

You say that no emotion is conveyed by the text and yet you also say that the reader will be motivated to stop reading through -- what? Could it be the first hand emotions that the text arouses within their own minds that prompt that response? Do they only expect to be an observer, acquiring emotions vicariously from the characters within the story? You say that they read the story solely to be entertained and I must agree up to a point. However, a friend once said to me that most people do not understand what hedonism is. He said that it is not solely the pursuit of enjoyable experiences in life but the enjoyment of all experiences in life. At one point my surrogate, the protagonist, asks the reader why they are reading the story, what they are seeking. Do they just want to experience a pleasant dream in a detached fashion? If so perhaps they could find better ones elsewhere. Yes, if they didn't want to become seriously involved in this one then they could leave it, but if they were willing to trust him he would lead them through the experience as best he could.

I often write about the need for a hook to draw the reader into a story, but being hooked isn't necessarily a pleasant experience in itself. At points in my story the characters become confused, bored or frustrated. I am quite willing to instill those feelings directly into the reader even if I risk losing them by doing so. They can escape from the experience if they have no empathy for the characters but either way those characters have no such choice and must endure it.

You mention that the reader only sees the words and not the picture that the writer has in mind behind them. Conversely Lucine only sees the picture of Moonlight in her mirror but does not hear her words. If that mirror were simply the reflective surface of a pool then they could dive through it to share the entire experience, but it is an impervious barrier and Lucine can only imagine for herself.

Lucine indulges in lengthy monologues, but that is what we all do to work things out in our minds. She may say things that are already known to both her and Moonlight, but that is no different from someone recalling a memory, literally listening to themselves speaking inwardly. 

I have never had any tuition in writing to my recollection, in school or elsewhere, to bias me in any way, so my style is simply based on my intention to convey information to a fulfil a purpose. That has been my entire career, the manipulation of information and the control of the processes surrounding it. The written word is just one of its forms.

If you are self-assured that you know who you are, where you are and what is happening, then I am happy for you. I have been like that but in recent years I have had to reassess my perspective. Looking back on my life I now see it in another light with the possibility that there is and always has been something else to it. Oscar Wilde said that a story is only worth reading if it is worth reading more than once. Life is much the same to my mind. We don't necessarily understand it all the first time around, but gradually the pieces in the jigsaw puzzle all fall into place and we start to see the whole picture. If my writing is unconventional by following a similar pattern then perhaps it is because my target reader is much like me. Of course many won't be, as you say, and won't understand. I accept that.

Thanks for your comments Jay. I think they run parallel to my own thinking but we see different objectives and hence evaluate them differently.

By the way, do you think that Lucine is fair in her assessment of her former boyfriend, from what she says? Would it be correct to put the words "He deliberately provokes me" into her mouth just because she _feels_ provoked? Wouldn't that place an immediate perception of him into the reader's mind when hers is the only character being developed there? Personally I think she overstates her justification for her feelings because she is still unsure of them deep down. Hence my many words but "The lady doth protest too much, methinks". (Hamlet, of course. All credit to the bard.)


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