“Hello” said the narrator “and welcome to the novel.”
“This is rather an unconventional way to begin” said the reader “no opening vignette or framing device? We’re jumping straight into soulless metafictional contrivances?”
“Hey!” the narrator shot back “my metafictional devices aren’t contrived!”
“Oh yes they are!” declared the reader, with aloof disdain.
“This device is strategically chosen to navigate the storytelling constraints I’m operating within. I’m trying to write an entire novel with no plan, no talent, and no intention to spend more than the minimum possible amount of time to reach 40,000 words.”
“Oh God. Is this a national novel writing month thing?”
“Enough!” exclaimed the narrator, as he floated into the air with lightning arcing from his hands “this exchange is joyless!”
And with that, the narrator narrator smote the reader with a bolt of lightning.
…
“Next!”
Alice’s heart palpitated. She was up next.
“Excuse me.” said the judge. “Your heart palpitated? Is that right? Do hearts palpitate?”
“Umm…” Alice emitted “I-“
“Hold it.” the judge interrupted. “You _emitted_ that last utterance? What kind of an verb is that for a conversation.”
“Well it’s hard to think of verbs to describe the progression of a conversation!” Alice explained “we can’t just go back and forth with ‘he said’, ‘she said’, and so on. I couldn’t think of any inspired verbs in the moment so I went for ‘emitted.’ What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s very weird.”
“Why is it weird?”
“I’ve never read a book where a character was described as _emitting_ a speech act.”
“In Sherlock Holmes, Doyle would sometimes describe the characters as _ejaculating_ some speech.”
“So, you think you’re Sherlock Holmes do you?”
“What? No, I-“
“Well then, Little Miss Sherlock Holmes. I have a case for you: the case of when does this text stop circling around the concept of a narrative and start to actually _be_ a narrative?”
“This… seems like too much responsibility to put on one character? I can’t lift this text out of direcitonless flailing all by myself. I need help!”
The judge sighed.
“Very well. You are completely right. Let’s begin by building out our environment. How would you describe this room?”
Alice looked around.
“Well… I’m standing on a stage. For like… an audition. It’s like when a singer or actor is auditioning in an empty theatre in front of a talent scout or something.”
“And the talent scout, in this case, is me?” asked the judge.
“Yes exactly. And the thing that I’m auditioning for is…”
Alice’s mind raced for a way to finish that sentence.
The judge raised an eyebrow “Is…?”
“is for a role as a character in this novel!”
A heavy pause hung in the air.
“Is that right?” asked the judge.
He looked down at the clipboard he was holding. Attached was a sheet of paper with the heading “auditions for characters to be part of this novel.”
The judge looked up from clipboard.
“Alright.” said the judge “that checks out. You’re auditioning to be a character in this novel. Go on.”
“And… the character I’m auditioning for is… Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Hold on.” said the judge “You’re not yourself a character? You’re auditioning to _play_ a character?”
“…
…Yes?”
The judge’s eyebrow was not coming down any time soon.
“And… how are you going to audition for this character today?”
“I have rehearsed a brief vignette to showcase myself in the role.”
“Very well. You may begin.”
Alice took a deep breath…
…
“Mother!” said Red Riding Hood, “I’m worried that grandma may cut us out of the will once she learns we have converted to Catholicism. Perhaps I should bring her some poisoned sandwiches to pre-empt her driving us to destitution.”
“Oh, Riding Hood.” said her mother. “You _are_ an industrious little scamp.”
And so, Riding Hood set off into the woods to with a basket of goodies under her arm.
“Hmm…” she thought to herself. “This is rather an awkward bridging scene. There are no scheduled plot developments between me leaving the house and me arriving at grandma’s.”
Her train of thought was interrupted by a pumpkin boy jumping out of the bushes.
In fact not one… but _three_ pumpkin boys!
They looked like Jack o’Lanterns with little stubby arms and legs. Their faces were carved into the pumpkins but the holes could sort of move around to convey a range of expressions. I’m not explaining it terribly well. It will make more sense when the film comes out.
“Give us all your jewels!” demanded the leader of the pumpkin gang.
“Oh, no! My jewels?”
…
“Stop!” barked the judge “This is terrible. You’re just throwing random stuff at the story now. There’s too much going on. The original premise of ‘little red riding hood but a sociopath’ was solid. That could have been a good story. But you immediately dropped the thread and threw in these pumpkin boys out of lack of conviction in your core premise. You’re world feels flimsey and ad-hoc and I’m not at all invested.”
A bead of sweat ran down Alice’s neck.
“Well…”
“Go back to the start, but build out the Red Riding Hood character. Her speech was interesting. Very deadpan and formal. That could be funny. Perhaps she has the emotional range of a Kafka character.”
“I… ok…”
The judge was right of course. What had she been thinking? She was wildly underprepared for this audition. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she had what it takes to be a character in this story.
“No.” she thought, clenching her fists. “I _do_ have what it takes to be a character. I’ve been training for this for years. I won the ‘Most Archetypal Character’ award at character school. Just breath, focus, and try again…”
…
“Daughter, we have run out of food.” said the mother “I’m afraid I must eat you now. Preheat the oven and then place yourself inside.”
Red Riding Hood stared at her feet. Mother had been saying this sort of thing a lot recently. But now there were no siblings left to take her place. Fortunately, the sacrifices of Splitzhelm, Greifer, Grinhard, and Biltzkrall had brought her enough time to think of a plan.
“Mother, I have another idea.”
“Hmmm…. yes? What is it my child? Is your idea to enter the oven?”
…
“Hang on,” said the Judge “is the mother simply a clone of Lemongrab from Adventure Time?”
“Yes” affirmed Alice without skipping a beat, and continued…
…
“No mother. I have a _different_ idea.”
“A different idea… hmm… speak my child.”
…
…
“Excuse me,” interrupted the judge again, “this dialogue is terrible.”
“I know!” Alice squeked. “To be honest, I’ve never _really_ written dialogue before, and I’m very much learning as I go.”
“The prose too. Very clunky.”
Alice stared at the floor.
“That sentence is exceedingly cliche.”
“You… can read the narrative text between our dialgoue now?”
The Judge was silent for a moment.
“We’ve gone too metafictional. Let’s get back to the story, shall we?”
…
“What is your idea my child?”
…
“STOP”
“…”
“I’m bored of this story.”
“…”
“…”
Alice and the Judge stared at each other for a moment.
“NEXT!”
…
As Alice stepped out of the theatre, the dam of her emotions broke and she burst into tears.
She sat down on a step in lobby with her head in her hand.
She wept and wept and wept until her cheeks were dark with mascara and crushing disappointment.
After about twenty minutes, a crisp voice spoke “Please excuse the intrusion” from the shadows.
Alice nearly jumped out of her skin, and flailed her head around to locate the voice.
Standing in a doorway was a tall, slender man. He wore a dark grey suit, complete with a tophat perched precariously atop his dome. A severe grin was plastered across his face. The grin of someone who knew the joke of the unierse, but knew that, in some deep sense, the joke was on him. His eyes sparkled with the mischief of a thousand garden gnomes.
“Wha… who are you? What do you want?”
“Why, Alice my dear.” said the man, as he crossed the dark room towards her, tossing an apple as he spoke. “I’m the man with the answer to all your problems.”
As he arrived in front of her, he stooped down to look directly into her shiny tear-stained eyes.
“You and I, darling, are going to heist the plot from out of this very novel.”
…
The author burst out laughing.
“This is good stuff. Heisting the plot from the novel? This writing stuff is easy.”
“I _am_ definitely running out of steam in this sitting though, and I’ve only written 1,500 words of my required 2,000 per day. What’s the laziest possible route to filling my quota? Perhaps if I do a sequence of short sketches that go nowhere, take no planning, and end as soon the next move becomes non-obvious?”
Yes… I think that’s the best I can do under these circumstances. Let us proceed….”
…
This is the story of a turtle. The turtle’s name is Mr Dove. You might think that this would be confusing. That all of the animals in the woods would be confused when they turn up at Mr Dove’s house expecting the door to be answered by a small white bird, but are instead greeted by a small green amphibian. “Oh,” the woodland animals would say “I was expecting Mr Dove” “I am he” Mr Dove would reply. The woodland visitor would stare at Mr Dove for a moment, dissociating slightly. “I… see…” the visitor would say, but really not see at all.
“Are you alright?” Mr Dove would say.
“Yes, I… I’m just feeling a little light headed” the woodland visitor would say.
“Oh dear.” Mr Dove would exclaim. “Well you’d better come in and have a cup of tea.”
And so, Mr Dove would lead the visitor into his home, sit the visitor down on the couch, and put the kettle on to boil.
…
“Ok, I’m bored of this.” said the author.
“You know, reader, allow me to let you in on a secret. You remember in that Red Riding Hood story from before, how Riding Hood’s siblings had those funny names?”
“Yes, I remember” said the reader.
“Ah! Jesus! How long have you been here?”
The reader shrugged and stared blankly at the author.
“Ok, well… I got those names by asking ChatGPT for ‘pickly sounding fake German names’ and the results were much better than I expected.”
“Wow. Very cool.” said the reader expressionlessly.
The reader continued to stare blankly at the author.
“This reader…” thought the author to himself “he has the stare of a madman. It fills me with contempt beyond imagining. Oh, how I hate him.”
And so, the author resolved in his heart, that he would kill the reader at the first opportunity.
The reader continued to stare.
…
“This novel really isn’t very good so far, is it Kluddman?” asked Puddwick.
“No. It really isn’t, Puddwick.” said Kluddman.
The two stared out over the cliff at the setting sun.
“I think the problem is that the author runs out of steam very quickly, Kluddman.”
“Aye, I think this is correct Puddwick.”
“And then he gets bored and abandons the cart.”
“Aye.”
Kluddman took a puff from his pipe, and blew a ring of smoke at the receding sun.
“Do you think he’s getting better, though?”
“It’s probably too soon to tell, Kluddman.”
Puddwick thought for a moment.
“Although we ourselves are an interesting development.”
“Aye. I suppose that’s true. The way we talk is rather… what would you say… unique.”
“Idiosyncratic, rather. Is what I would say.”
“Aye, idiosyncratic.”
The top of the sun finally melted behind the mountains.
“What do you suppose we are, Kluddman?”
“I was sort of imaging us as a Swedish version of hobbits.”
“Aye. Could be, could be.”
“Who are we really to say, Puddwick?”
This was followed by a lengthy pause.
“Am I Puddwick? I thought you were Puddwick.”
“Aye.”