Over the years, I’ve written many stories, and finished almost none of them. That’s a great many worlds started, but unfinished, which mean a lot of people were birthed in my imagination, only to be left hanging at critical moments in their lives. This won’t cover all the apologies I have to make, but I hope this will be a good starting point.
I know you guys can hear me, because you’re in my head.
I’m sorry I left you stranded between dimensions, exhausted by battle with a deity, and without any communication with your home reality. You never got to find the remaining magic components, or the other instruments to open the musical lock. In fact, now that I remember, the latter plot was totally abandoned. That was stupid of me.
I’m sorry that your love died, and your journey to the Red Star was never completed. Doubly sorry that the impending war with the Infesters remains impended. The stress of constantly being on the eve of battle must be crushing to your psyche. Also, sorry that your name was eventually used for a sleep aid medication. It sounded so cool when I was thirteen, and I didn’t have it in my heart to change it.
I’m sorry that your love died as well, and that your descent into your villainous persona had no real conclusion in the narrative. Your whole goal was to meet the deity, and I left you on the ship to rot while some punk kid fought the battle that was rightfully yours to fight. And to think, you had the powers of the Star Guardian Alkenshel at your command.
To Bob, Zach, Dan, and Wes,
I’m sorry that after the destruction of the Laser Eye, that the identity of the mastermind remains a mystery. In truth, I never knew who it was to begin with. I thought it was the principal, but he ended up being a puppet of the demons the whole time, and thus had no ego with which to scheme anything. You never did find the correct Latin phrase to open the portal in the basement. The town remains a killing field, and it’s all my fault.
To Kitten and Uggluk,
I’m sorry you’re still in prison. I really am. Your adventure is always in the forefront of my mind, and yet I never get you out. I’ve actually written your escape in its entirety, but got rid of it because it wasn’t cool enough. That’s not fair, and I know that.
To Harrison and Chelle,
I’m sorry that the crimes of the Mysterium go unpunished, and your loved ones have to this day died in vain. You both have constant evolving destinies in my head, rest assured. But the depression of revenge unfinished, of justice never attained, must really be a thorn in your collective ass.
I’m sorry you never got to kill a single dragon, and that you never got the money to save your diner from being repossessed. We all appreciate your service to this country in the military, and the fact that there’s a killer beast ravaging the town, well, I know that doesn’t sit well with you. Because, despite the fact that you’re a bit jaded now (with the divorce, and impending unemployment in this economy), I know you’re a good man.
I’m sorry you never found out who killed the Indian. I’m still writing your story, but since it’s historical fiction, it’ll probably take ten years to get it right. In the mean time, you’re still sitting beneath a tree, and you just heard a noise. You’re constantly hearing a noise, and you’ve never figured out what it is. That must be extremely annoying.
I know there are others out (in) there who deserve more than what I gave them. All is can say is what I’ve been saying all along, and what I’ll likely be saying years from now:
I’m working on it.
“You know what’s sad about reading books? It’s that you fall in love with the characters. They grow on you. And as you read, you start to feel what they feel - all of them - you become them. And when you’re done, you’re never the same. Sure you’re still you, you look the same, talk in the same manner, but something in you has changed. Something in the way you think, the way you choose, sometimes, even the things you say may differ. But it all comes down to the state you go to after a nice novel. The after-feeling. It’s amazing, but somehow, you feel left alone by that world you were once in. It’s overwhelming. But it makes you sad. Cause for once you were this, this otherworldly being in… Neverwhere, and then you suddenly have to say goodbye after a few weeks from when you read the last page. When you’ve recovered from that state. It’s just… quite sad.”
i like my men unattainable and out of my league
If you do not reblog this, you are in fact lying.
T - Tessa Gray
H - Haru
E - Embry Call
G - Guinevere
R - Robin
E - Elizabeth Swann
A - Alec Lightwood
T - Tenzin
B - Bolin
I - Iroh
G - Gus Waters
Q - Quil Ateara
U - Ulysses
E - Eric Lyndon
S - Sebastian Verlac
T - Tim Drake
I - Isabelle Lightwood
O - Olive Oyle
N - Naga
M - Mako
A - Asami
R - Raphael Santiago
K - Korra
how is it possible to love fictional characters this much and also have people always been this way?
like, did queen elizabeth lie in bed late sometimes thinking ‘VERILY I CANNOT EVEN FOR MERCUTIO HATH SLAIN ME WITH FEELS’
was caesar like ‘ET TU ODYSSEUS’
sometimes i wonder
ugh i love fictional characters so much how will i even love real people anymore
I’ve had a handful of heartaches, it’s true
But would someone please enlighten me—
As to why my heart beats more painfully
For unreal lads in films and books?
I spent more than half of today feeling sorry for douchebag asshole fictional characters (namely Tahno and Ben Grogen). I have no life.
when the character in the book/fanfiction you are reading does something really embarrassing and you suffer secondhand embarrassment and you just have to stare at the ceiling and whisper you are an idiot why would you do that oh my god
may i introduce you to blaine anderson and kurt hummel
do you ever like a fictional character so much you actually get jealous when other people say they like them