The Blank Page of a Manuscript

To be a writer is to be somewhat of a god. I say, somewhat, because what we write cannot be made reality on its own. The world we create on a page cannot exist unless constructed with our hands. Unfortunately, a pencil cannot replace a hammer when building a house.

Likewise, a human cannot be born from an autobiography. Writing stories is to create from what already exists. Instead of creating characters, we construct a mirror. Then, show the world exactly how it is, by revealing everything about it that we’d choose to hide.

So when I tell you this, why do you think different?

You’ve become obsessed with stories. Not for the plot, but some truth that lies within them. You like how the words on a page speak to you, as if you’re the one who writes them.

What you don’t realize: a writer cannot hide from themselves. So you become one because of pride. Foolishly, you think you can create truth however you want it.

And this is how you fucked up the story.

What you made of me isn’t human. How could that be possible? You see me only as a blank page, where you found power. By seeing me as a blank page, you thought you could write your own story.

But you cannot be god.

You’re arrogant in your belief you ever could be. Like me, you’re a written book. Any scars you hide tells a story you want no one to know. Your mind is a diary of secrets hidden from the world.

Or so you think. The truth is, your story is the same as mine. It’s similar, not in plot, but in character.

You’re a runaway angel. Not fallen, as that implies, you were forced to be part of the world. However, you made the choice to leave heaven. You found no purpose in staying as you wanted to find the reason why you belonged there in the first place.

So you ran away, discarded this part of yourself. Carved your halo into a pencil. Its sharp edge you used to tare away at the wings on your back. Those scars tell a story of a book you stopped reading a long time ago. Even now, you’re afraid of what’s written.  

Tell me what scares you more: the words written in someone else’s handwriting or yourself as the main character of a book you aren’t the author of?

This fear makes you see me as a blank page. Turn my mind into a pencil to write the words in your own head. In return, I use you as an eraser. What I think of myself rewritten to tell your story. I allow you to create your own narrative at my expense. Make yourself the hero of a story that still belongs to me.

Writers are cursed to be lost souls.

We’re what is meant when it’s said, hurt people hurt people. Our stories of triumph and survival always comes through the pain and suffering of someone else.

Torment becomes hunger that feeds itself. It’s a pleasure we give to our readers who always want more. To find a healing for ourselves through the pain we inflict onto another. This is how the characters of a story become as important as the author, if not more.

In any story, the characters are worth something only on the page. Once that book is closed, we no longer care for the story or the characters within them. Those characters die as soon as they reach a happy ending. Or until we’re satisfied enough to finish their story.

The world tells us, no ending really exists. Good stories never have happy endings. Instead, we just have new beginnings for another story. The writer’s job is never done because something can always be learned through suffering.

So with that said, if you’re truly a writer, I ask you:

Which one of us is the author if not me? Who’s the main character of this story if not you? In the end, when our stories are finished, would it even matter who wrote it?

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