Our Creative Inspiration classes will show you the way! At Fiction Academy, the world’s premier institute for all things Fiction, you can learn about plot twists, character development, and conflict! We even offer electives in the thrilling worlds of Memoir and Essay!
At Fiction Academy’s three-year program, you’ll be joining the ranks of Fiction’s elite. From Action Heroes to Zombies, our staff are all certified best sellers in their respective genres, and have been turning out a successful graduating class for centuries. Just some of our alums include: Long John Silver, Othello, Big Brother, Merlin, Meg March, Spot, Scylla . . .
“Why does it just trail off like that?” Jenny whispered, peering over my shoulder.
“Scene was taking too long, I think,” I mumbled. “Jenny, do you know where this Creative Inspiration class is?”
She scratched her chin thoughtfully, and if that wasn’t indication enough of brilliant thoughts to come, a dazzling light lit up briefly above her head.
“I’ve got it!” she announced, as the Bright Idea flew away. Even after it was gone, she was still glowing, and I wondered if she, too, was being written somewhere Out There. I hoped her story was headed in a better direction than mine. Before I had time to get too introspective or “woe is me, I’m going to be assassinated,” she grabbed my hand and guided me right through the wall of trees bordering the square. They scratched and pulled at us as we passed, but not a moment later, we broke free and found ourselves on a narrow dirt path. Trees lined the path on both sides—beautiful floral trees, palm trees, cypress trees, and even a few Christmas trees, complete with decorations—but Jenny didn’t stop to be surprised. She just pulled me along by the hand.
“Jenny, where are we going?” I asked again.
“I’m not really sure, but I suddenly feel inspired to follow this path!” She nearly laughed in excitement. “Ithinkit’smywoman’sintuitionkickingin, or you know, Joanne always says I’m veryintunewithFiction’senergy—”
“We take a left here,” I said, following the sign at the Y in the trail. It read, “Creative Inspiration: Left.”
As we wound our way down the hill, the strange trees grew taller and thicker until it seemed like we were walking in a colorful tunnel, or perhaps down the middle of a kaleidoscope. Campus seemed worlds away.
“Jenny, are you sure . . . What are you doing?”
Jenny had stepped off the trail into the only clearing we’d come across. It was like a tiny meadow off the path, thickly carpeted with jungle-green grass and strange purple flowers shaped like butterflies. From out of nowhere, Jenny had materialized a large wooden easel, a canvas, and a palate of paints. She didn’t have a brush, though, and so finger painting it was. I didn’t have a good feeling about this, but finally I tore myself away from the path and joined her. She was just finishing up a rather crude portrait of what looked like Mr. Potato Head when I grabbed her sleeve to get her moving again. But suddenly, I didn’t really feel like moving. I felt like dancing.
“This trail is so . . . inspiring! Do you happen to have a ukulele?” Jenny asked thickly as I moved with the beat of the music, which had suddenly begun. It sounded sort of like fairy song, but even more beautiful, wilder, and it seemed to float from the trees themselves.
I turned at the sound of her voice and saw her beauty, her perfect, perfect beauty, with the colorful, perfect trees as her perfect backdrop. I had to sculpt her. Immediately.
Then I realized I’d just used the word perfect four times in one sentence, and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to sculpt. Something was wrong.
“Jenny, why are we out here in the woods again?” I asked, dancing to express my bewilderment. Jenny wiped her paint-stained hand along her pant leg and stood beside me, matching my movements. The music was moving faster, and the ground vibrated with the beat. We swayed along in time and traced our fingers through the air: confusion. We kicked our legs and threw our heads back: terror. Slowly, with each movement, each emotion, we worked our way back onto the path. As soon as we reached it, the violent music stopped, and the inspiration to paint, dance, and be creative was gone, leaving us tired and feeling drained.
“Oh, I feel like I have an interpretative dance hangover,” Jenny groaned, her head in her hands. “What was that?”
“Creative Inspiration,” I answered groggily. I grabbed her hand, still warm, still tingling, and led her down the dirt path, farther away from school. “Come on, I think we’re getting closer.”
Sure enough, about one hundred yards down the path, there was another large wooden sign: “Creative Inspiration: Right.”
Just moments later the path opened up into a large clearing, and a vast meadow stretched before us, covered thickly with that jungle-green grass and speckled liberally with delicate white flowers, like stars. In the distance, tall trees of every color I could imagine surrounded the open space—the Christmas trees glimmering in the sunshine.
And right in the center of the meadow sat a squat, one-story building made of logs, looking very out of place indeed. Jenny nodded in its direction and winked at me, which I took to mean, “let’s head for that building . . . my love.” And so we made our way through the meadow. As we got closer, I could make out its roughly thatched roof, a big, round door, and golden smoke wafting thickly from a little brick chimney.
When we were just yards away, it became clear that the golden smoke from the building was not smoke at all, but tiny words. They poured from the chimney, eager to escape, and then ambled through the air like fireflies.
Above the little round door was a final wooden sign that simply read, “Creative Inspiration. Welcome.” With another nod from Jenny, I reached out to open the door, and nearly fell forward when the door swung inward before I even touched the handle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Peter and Jenny! How inspiring it is to meet you. Come in, come in!” the little hobbit said from the open doorway.
Before you get too star struck, I will tell you right now, this was not Bilbo Baggins. For one thing, this hobbit was even shorter than the legendary hero, and he was nearly as round as the doorway that framed him. He had bright red hair and a bushy mustache to match—well, bright considering his rather dull and hazy overall appearance. He shuffled out of the way and stood aside as Jenny and I walked in, followed closely by Wonder.
“Welcome to Creative Inspiration,” the small man said, closing the door behind us. The room was much larger than it had appeared from outside, and in a wide circle in the center were at least fifteen low, cushy armchairs of various colors. He invited us to sit down in two blue ones set before a crackling fireplace where there was a large black pot, simmering with ideas, the words of which floated up the chimney and out of sight.
All along the walls of the room were bookshelves packed with the strangest books I’d ever seen. Rather than sit in the proffered blue chair, my wonderment got the better of me, and I moved toward the bookshelves to take a closer look. Instead of spines made of leather or even paper, these books were made from clear glass. Floating inside each of these clear books were words—thousands and thousands of words—flitting about inside their encasements like little dust motes in the light.
“Pretty impressive, aren’t they?” the hobbit said from behind me. He was standing with a rather too-large tray of tea things, sweat brimming on his brow.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I stammered as I sat down in the chair next to Jenny, who was wearing a look of great embarrassment. Once I was seated, the hobbit hefted the tray onto a coffee table before us, and sat down in a much smaller, cushy, purple chair opposite.
“It’s okay, Peter. As I said earlier, this is Creative Inspiration! Students are encouraged to follow their every whim here. My name is Professor Gildo, and this is normally where we hold our Creative Inspiration classes. Of course today is National Color in the Cracks of the Sidewalk and Call It Art Day, and it’s a weekend to boot, so it will just be the three of us.” Gildo winked.
“Professor,” I
said without preamble. “Do you know how a character can communicate with an author? Like, change the outcome of a story?”
The little man studied me for a moment, as though wondering if I could bear to hear his answer. Finally, he nodded gravely.
“Peter . . . that is a stupid question. Not at all inspired. Jenny?” he said, pointing at her, as though she’d raised her hand.
Jenny looked at me apologetically, and flexed her fingers absently.
“Umm . . . Okay, so we know this is Creative Inspiration, and we already know that what you do here is just that: inspire authors with their stories . . .” Jenny looked around at the room, perhaps for inspiration. “So, how do we inspire an author to change a story, when we aren’t even sure what exactly is already set to happen?”
Gildo nodded slowly. “That’s a start, Jenny, a good question. I suppose I’d better just tell you how things work around here—save us from any more unnecessary questions,” he added, glancing at me.
“These books, as Peter has undoubtedly noticed, are not your ordinary books.” Gildo hopped from his chair to a nearby shelf and ran his fingers along the delicate spines.
“These are the books that make books. They are filled with untold tales, alternate endings, plot twists, character traits—every aspect of a story—and are just waiting to be used. This one, for example,” he said, pulling a very dusty glass book from the shelf. In the light of the fire, it looked even more fragile. I was surprised he was able to handle the thing.
“This book was the inspiration behind Mr. Bilbo’s encounter with the trolls—one of the more famous decisions made by a character and adopted, however reluctantly, by the author. You see, the author did not initially want trolls; the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He thought of gnomes, pixies, brownies—but these creatures were all too tame for the scene at hand, the scene that would change the story. I knew it; Bilbo knew it; so we just . . . tweaked things a bit.”
Gildo set the book carefully down on the coffee table next to our untouched tea party and walked to a little cabinet in the corner of the room. When he returned, he was holding a sheet of paper and what looked like a rectangular sliver of iridescent glass, its color changing as he moved from shadow to light. He handed the sheet to Jenny, and to my horror, it folded over on itself like an old sock.
“Okay, that was not my fault,” I said, edging away from Jenny.
“It’s quite alright, Peter. This is Plot Paper. When a character needs to change a story, move things along a bit, or inspire the author, we use this,” he said, indicating the strange sheet with a dramatic flourish. We all stared at the magical page in reverence.
“So . . . how exactly?” I finally asked, as the sheet remained rather boring.
“Oh yes, certainly,” Gildo muttered. He hopped up once again and made his way to the cabinet. This time when he came back, he was holding what looked like a scalpel, with a long, clear base.
“We use this pen to write our stories. Here, try it, Jenny,” he said, handing over the strange utensil. Jenny held it in her fingers, which were still stained a muddy brown from all the colors of the finger paints, and slowly lowered it to the sheet. When she pressed down, tiny, golden words spilled out onto the sheet before disappearing a moment later. She looked at Gildo, who was watching her expectantly.
“Go on, write something. See what happens,” he whispered.
And so Jenny wrote on the paper, all eyes on her in anticipation of what might happen, and how she might change their story and their lives forever. But nothing happened.
Gildo and I watched the golden, loopy letters appear on the page before vanishing again into its shimmering surface.
“Nothing happened,” Jenny said flatly.
“Well, of course nothing happened. This doesn’t seem to be your story. Plot Paper will communicate words into the thoughts, dreams, and ‘creativity’ of the main characters’ author. Looking at you, young lady, it is clear that you are playing a big role somewhere Out There; perhaps you are a supporting character, a friend, or maybe a love interest?”
Jenny’s face colored visibly.
“Of course we’re not always aware that we are characters at all,” Gildo said hastily. “But tell me, have you been feeling well lately? Any slight tingling, feverishness, or ants-in-the-pants feeling?” he asked, looking at her seriously. She flexed her fingers again and nodded, still looking a little bewildered.
“Well then you may very well be playing an important role in a story someone is writing! Not the main role, as we’ve seen with the Plot Paper, but perhaps you’ll pop up in a nice Mystery, or Fantasy, or maybe even both!” Gildo said cheerily, clapping his hands together. By this point, Jenny had managed to regain most of her composure, and picked up her teacup for something to do. It shook so badly, though, that she spilled most of it and set it down.
“Now perhaps it is your story we are concerned about, Peter. You’ve got the looks of a main character; you’re clear as Nonfiction, you are.” He handed me the Plot Paper and was watching me almost hungrily. “Just write what you’d like to have happen and we’ll find out . . .” He watched my hand, biting his lip, as I lowered the pen to the page. It felt all wrong; it felt like I was carving my initials into something living, like a tree, or somebody’s arm.
Peter wrote on the page and it felt all wrong so he stopped.
I stopped and handed the pen back to Gildo.
“I don’t think this is working. Look, I didn’t want to tell you this, but the reason we are here is pretty specific. Tabatha Christine is writing a new novel Out There, and it looks like I am one of her characters.”
“That’s excellent!” Gildo exclaimed, pointing frantically at the swirling page in my lap. “If you’re the main character, you should be able to change the plot! Now what would you like, Peter? Perhaps a new bicycle, obviously a new ending, maybe a cute new girlfriend . . .”
Jenny seemed to forget her nerves and smacked the table with the palm of her hand. The tea things bounced and clattered, slopping the drinks onto the tray. “Okay, that’s enough. Peter is not the main character of Christine’s book. He’s set to be assassinated, and Christine never kills off her main character. In fact, wedon’tevenknowwhothemaincharacteris! All we know is that Gail istheassassin and—”
“Slow down, dear girl. Did you just say Gail is the assassin? As in Gail Potts?”
Jenny and I both nodded. Gildo made a low whistling noise.
“She’s been working as an assassin in Fiction for years, that woman. Left her husband, her life, and her children, to go off and . . .” He shuddered. I, myself, wasn’t familiar with Gail’s previous work, but apparently it hadn’t been pretty.
“Let’s just say, if Gail Potts wants you dead, and it turns out she is the main character of Christine’s book, I highly doubt she will be willing to change the plot. If somebody else is the main character—somebody reasonable, sane, and who still has a soul—you might have hope yet. But if Gail is the one calling the shots . . .” He let his words trail off meaningfully before he leaned forward to take the Plot Paper and pen gently from my grasp.
“My advice: Find out who the main character of this book is, find out quickly, and speak to him/her about changing the ending as soon as you can.”
“Who?” Jenny squeaked.
“Gender Neutral Pronoun,” I muttered tiredly, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “We don’t know who the main character is. Christine will release the list next week,” I said to Gildo.
Professor Gildo nodded gravely. He returned to the cabinet where he put away the strange writing materials, and when he came back, he began clearing away the untouched tea things. It looked like this scene was over, so we thanked Gildo for his hospitality and made our way back to campus.
That night I told Randy all about my strange day. To my surprise, he wasn’t surprised, which, honestly, surprised the both of us.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard about changing the plot before!”
“I’m surprised you have!” I countered.
He was making dinner in the kitchen, which was newly renovated to look less like a bomb shelter and more like a bomb shelter with new black-and-white checkered tile, new retro appliances, and new hand-hemmed light-yellow curtains. It looked like a kitchen straight out of the ’50s—or Detective—and it clashed with the rest of the cozy apartment. The chilly outside air blew in through the open window, rustling the curtains, but still, the whole place smelled like roasting onions and garlic. I was starving. Randy popped his head out into the living room, where I was doing my best not to eat a fuzzy pillow.
“I think it’s a good idea to try and get in touch with the main character of Christine’s new book. I’ll see if I can pull some strings in Detective and get the list a little early. In the meantime, you got a letter today,” Randy said absently, tossing an envelope into the living room. With a great deal of effort, I jumped from the couch to catch it before it flew out the living room window, which was also open.
“Who’s it from?” Randy called after about three seconds. I ripped open the envelope and, as I’m sure we were all expecting, it was from Gail the Assassin.
Dear Peter,
As you have probably found out, I have escaped and I am seeking revenge. If you already know why, skip these few lines, as this is the part where I unnecessarily clarify things in the sneaky form of an explanatory letter.
Randy chose you over me. For more than five years I have been working as an assassin in various books, only in the hopes of protecting my family selflessly, and Randy doesn’t seem to be able to see that. And so I’ll just have to take my anger out on you. By killing you. I really rather hate you.
Don’t get me wrong; at first I was just doing my job regretfully, half-heartedly, as I really am quite a fan of your books. After all, teaching at Payne was one of my first jobs after that unfortunate house incident, and it was by watching your ruthless bravery with those bullies that I decided to take on the job of assassin.
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 12