Since James is too busy, what with the birth of his third child, to sit down and write a blog this week, I will be stepping in. My name is Timothy West. I was created November second, 2009. I am a character in one of James's books.
I am unfinished.
You might expect this to be a diatribe against James Andrew Wilson: the heartless, ruthless, careless man who created me, told half of my story, then left me to die. I will do my best to refrain from calling him any bad name that he doesn't deserve.
When James decided to push "save" on my file and cram me into the bowels of his hard drive, never to be seen again, I had a knife sticking out of my back. My wife was just taken by a man who called himself Jack Smiley. Jack had come to our world through a magic box that appeared in my basement. The box could transport somebody to hundreds of different worlds. Jack took my wife because she was beautiful (she is beautiful, I will find her) and then stabbed me in the back with a steak knife and left me bleeding on my kitchen floor.
In his great wisdom, James decided that my plot wasn't working and left me there fighting for my life. With 50,000 words of my story told, and 50,000 to go, HE ABANDONED ME!
I do not hate him. I loath him, despise me, wish that his fingers would fall off in his sleep so that he could never write again. But then I don't, because I need him to write again.
Do you know what it is like to live an unfinished story? If I stand in front a mirror, I can see that the lower half of my face is missing. Searching the pages of my story, I have discovered that my jaw is missing because James never described it.
There are rooms in my house with nothing but blank white walls. My pantry is empty except for the Top Ramen noodles mentioned in chapter twenty-two. I am in constant pain because that is last thing he described me feeling. Hot, penetrating pain from the knife blade protruding out of my back.
This is no way to live. Unfinished. It is not fair.
And yet, I have not crossed the gap between fiction and reality only to write hateful things (true things, all of them true) about Mr. Wilson, here for the world to see. No, his lack of character will soon reveal itself. Instead, I have come to you with a plea. Convince James to pick up my story again. My poor wife is gone, taken by a maniacal man from another world. I have discovered that he intends to make her his bride.
I have to find her!
He has taken her through the box in my basement to one of the hundreds of different worlds. But I know that I will never find it, because James hasn't written his world yet! Even if I did know the coordinates, I would arrive there to find nothing but emptiness.
Help! I beg you to convince James to finish my story. Force him if you must. Torture that no good for nothing, wretched, awful--
I'm afraid there are not words to describe him. He is a very bad man. You would do well not to trust him.
I place my hopes in you, dear readers of this blog. Help me find my wife. Help me get this knife out of my back.
Help me be finished.
Counting on you,
Timothy West
