At a certain point in her development as a writer, the fiction writer realized novels would never be enough. She had gone beyond simply wanting to make a living – or at least a life – of art. The visions came nearly constantly, so that she felt if she couldn’t capture them, she’d be pulled into their ether.
She had made a memoir, White Lies, that had caused some controversy over some parts that turned out to lack veracity. Fine. She had always known she should have never expected them to get it. It’s not for them anyhow. When she writes, whatever she’s writing, she’s creating herself.
No, not just herself – her world.
Which is the world around her from her perspective. She smiled to herself, thought it must be akin to what G*d must feel when he was writing his book.
In the beginning, she wrote, there was light, and only light. This was how darkness came to be known.
Shortly after the last of the lawsuits were settled, she had a dream. She was wandering in a library of books, masterpieces, that had never been written, by great authors, by authors unknown. It was a dream out of a Borges story.
She woke to a turning above her in the dark, like a carousel in a blackout. She turned on the light. It was the ceiling fan. She breathed deeply, sat up, reached for pen and paper, began writing down the dream of the library.
The next night, the dream recurred. And the night after. And each time she woke, she knew the contents of a different book, she just had to find a way to write it down in the day before the night when the next book would come. Thus, the stories could no longer occupy the space of the novels they represented, so she had to turn to something else.
But what was it? What form? Diary? Fantasy?
The truth was the fictions now came so fast there was very little time to consider form. Similar to a sleeper who considers little beyond her own comfort when she positions herself for sleep, the fiction writer picked up her pen and dreamed.
