Excerpt: The Index

There is a phrase I heard once that reminds me of the way I write: cat-herding. I know of writers who plan out every detail, every nuance of their stories and characters before they begin. They virtually write the entire story before the actual writing ever truly begins; I am not one of those writers.

I suppose it could be said that I am subject to the whims of a mob. I do not write so much as listen to the stories that my characters will tell (however passionately or reluctantly) and frantically write them down before they slip away. At other times, I will be bothered by an idea for days before the whining finally gets so incessant that I give in and write it. Rarely if ever do these same characters do what I want them to.

But even more fickle than their minds is the mind of my muse, Royale. Some sort of descendant of the ancient Greek Muses, he is a selfish, flighty son of a bitch that knows just the right way to jerk me around to entertain himself and get what he wants.

Like now, for instance. In all honesty, I should be making better use of my time right now by working on my homework and college applications. Instead, he has hit me in the head with the thunderbolt of this need, this addiction to the written word, and here I am once again, trapped amid the chaos that he throws around like flower petals. He’s let the characters out, and they’ve emerged with a vengeance that is disproportionate to the actual situation; you would think, after already agreeing to do two hundred short stories in two hundred days, their infatuations with themselves would be appeased. But no, they have to continue the harassment to a greater degree during this month of all months.

They’ve been gathered together in an amphitheatre so large that the walls seem to stretch back endlessly into the shadows; it has to be large, to house as many characters as I have. I am pinned on the stage in the middle, trapped there underneath the weight of all those stares. I have no worries that even the ones pushed to the back will hear me—whether or not they will listen to what I have to say is another matter entirely.

Royale looks far too proud of himself, and I want desperately to wipe that smug smile off of his face. But I know better than to try to best him right now; he holds the reins of my drive, and if he tugs on them I must listen. It would be just like him to throw me to the proverbial lion pit of this mob without a single idea to my name.

Conspicuous in his absence, the Inner Editor is nowhere to be found. Though he and Royale are evenly matched, the muse manages to persuade Conrad to take a much-needed vacation during November. If he remained, it’s assured that nothing would get done. I almost wish he was here now, so that I would have some sort of shield between myself and the multitude before me.

But perhaps I have something better: I have Zipartas. He towers over almost all of my characters, and the force of his personality keeps the others in check. He stands to my left, and smiles at me a little when I glance at him. Zimpar stands on my right, looking rumpled and sleepy in his leather coat. He would rather be sleeping off Halloween and the aftermath of his birthday two days before, but at the moment I need both of them to hold back the tides.

The second I clear my throat, all attention fixates on me. It’s an eerie feeling, knowing that upwards of a thousand people whose lives you care for are watching you and judging every word that you say. I should be used to it by now.

“I trust you all know why we’re here.” There’s a murmur in the affirmative, accompanied by a few laughs from some of the more well-developed Characters. “Despite the fact that I have been writing virtually every day for the past several months, the lot of you and Royale have decided that isn’t enough. I accept your challenge, but I would like to lay a few ground rules.

“You are not strangers to this. First, Characters have priority.” There are a few grumbles of displeasure at that, from the mere characters—the difference being that the Characters are ones I’ve had longer, developed more, and have more substance to them. Like the way Zipartas can force those below him to submit, Characters can generally cow their weaker brethren.

What I have to say next, however, might displease some of my favorite people to work with. I nod toward a group of strange-looking elves that seem to be keeping mostly to themselves. “Out of those, Sabila and her friends have priority. Theirs is the plot I was originally intending to write during this month. As for the rest of you, be glad I’ll be spending this month writing about you at all.”

As anticipated, many of them don’t like that. Sabila and the other characters involved in her plot are relatively new arrivals to the House, and older Characters have the habit of being prejudiced against the newer. It’s a problem, but one that they can deal with on their own. Unless things get out of hand, I generally let them love or hate who they will.

“For those who have requests, ideas, or, god forbid, demands, I have a mailbox. Fill it to your heart’s desire. Whether or not I use any of them is up to my own discretion, but it certainly can’t hurt to submit them. If you do, I might end up writing about you more than I thought I would.

“However, the first order of business is to finish that particular story I have lingering around from last week. Then I will work on something new.”

“In other news,” Zimpar said, his voice a low and dangerous drawl, “get the fuck out of here. She has work to do.”

With an amphitheatre this size, it’s startling how fast it can empty. All that remained, lurking towards the back, was a pair of men—the characters from the story I mentioned. They hate each other, and the taller keeps looking at the other with a hungry expression that seems far too predatory.

“Good luck, little sister.” Zipartas squeezes my shoulder and then motions to Zimpar, who follows him out after grinning at me.

Smiling a little, I turn to Royale, who’s lounging indolently in a chair that was there a few minutes before. His expression is meant to be charming and suave, but the eagerness and smugness underneath just makes me roll my eyes.

“Let’s get this over with.”