(Notes for this episode: This should be third person and funny. Preferably, something should happen.)
He had been trying to write a novel for some months now and he was still waiting for something to happen. Other people’s novels seemed to be quite eventful. How did they bring about this action? Where did it come from? Who perpetrated it? His characters certainly weren’t in the mood for anything too lively. He encouraged them to do outlandish things—take a trip to Tibet, have wild love affairs—but they stared back at him icily and continued to sit around in their dim apartments talking about their grim childhoods. He tried to get new characters, with more compelling personalities, but they laughed at him; they were too busy in the novels they were already in. And besides, he couldn’t figure out what to do with the old characters—it seemed heartless just to kill them off. He was beginning to suspect that the problem lay not in his characters but in himself. There was, he had to admit, a distinct lack of action in his own life. It was as if someone had forgotten to give him a story.
the apparition of these faces I scribble in the margins
But now. Now! He could barely breathe. Something was actually happening. He couldn’t be sure what, exactly, but it seemed almost…fictional.
never sure which duck is quacking autumn rain
That giant eye: he knew it hadn’t been a dream. And she was always wandering out to the barn, though she’d warned him to stay away because it was supposedly falling down. And there were noises—she said alternately that they were owls hooting or planes overhead but it sounded to him, frankly, like impossibly loud snoring. He hadn’t spent his entire childhood with his nose in a book for nothing. He knew a story when he saw one. It remained only to figure out what to do about it.
I told him to stop but only the wind