Well?
"Well what?" replied Sylvie.
Well, aren't you going to go get the compressor and set it up to blow across the tops of the bottles, do that flute thingy, and open that portal to another world?
"Now see...." said Sylvie, "..it's just that kind of stuff I hate."
What kind of "stuff"?
"Portal" she said.
What do you mean? Isn't that a portal that just opened up on the wall there?
"Heck if I know." said Sylvie. "'Portal' is such a science fiction kind of word, you know?"
So.....so if I'd called it something else you'd have tried to open it up -- maybe gone through it?
"I don't know, but I'm not going to be a character in some science fiction story. That I do know." Sylvie said with just the slightest tone of belligerence in her voice.
I really had more in mind something like a "fantasy", not science fiction. So just because you see it as science fiction you're not going to go through the por...er...entrance? You're just being silly. What if there's some really great stuff in that alternate universe?
"See?!..." She stared me down, and with sort of a smirk, continued, "....it's just that kind of stupid......"alternate universe" crap that just.......ooooh!.....It BUGS me!"
OK, OK, settle down. What if you just do the compressor wind thingy and walk through that opening in the wall toward that really big tree? I think everyone would like to know where it leads, and I think it would be nice if you showed just a little cooperation.
"WHO do you think you are?!", she blurted. "What makes you think you can just order me around?"
I didn't order you around. I asked very nicely. And I might point out that I could have ordered you to do it. I don’t even have to ask.
“Oh really? Who the heck ARE you anyway, and what gives you that right?” She asked (and it was easy to see her temperature was rising).
Look, I’m John Bauman and what gives me the right is that I just now made you up. I’m making this whole thing up! It’s FICTION for gosh sakes! If I want you to do something I just write it and you do it. In fact, I’m the one who started the big rain storm, and…
“That was you? Well thank…you…very…much!!! My jacket is real suede and your stupid rain storm probably ruined it! Yes. Thank you very stinking much!!”
You weren’t wearing suede. I was specifically imagining you in a sporty Gore-Tex windbreaker. I KNOW that because I knew it was going to rain…..I mean, I MADE IT RAIN, DAMMIT!
“Nice language for a god-type being” she sassed.
I’m not a god-type being, I’m just the writer…
“You!!!!! A writer????!!!!!!” she could barely speak through her laughter.
I made no claims to the quality of the writing, I just mean that I am writing this bit of fiction. And getting back to the point, whatever I write you do. Look, I even named you Sylvie, but if I choose to, I can change it. In fact, I’ll prove it to you. You are now, heretofore, to be called “Karen”.
“I don’t feel any different” replied Sylvie. “And look, see that right there? I mean right between the last two quotation marks? Right after the word “replied”? What’s that word Mr. Smarty-pants, big shot writer guy? I think it said “replied Sylvie”. You seem to be rather impotent after all” By now the replies were coming rapid-fire. She was on a roll.
Look, this blog post is getting long. I’ve carried it through multiple days and most folks have probably just given up hope that you’d ever go through the port…..er……entrance anyway. So won't you please? So we can get on with the story? What if I make you into a really great potter?! How about I make you like, say, a female version of Tom Coleman?
"Whoa! Now you are talking fiction. REAL fiction....
......but maybe we could deal here......
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