What Makes us Different

We are writers.

We are a little strange.

You said something to me last year, something about your crazy aunt with a pet iguana, and I remembered it. I made her a character in my book.

You have to be careful around us. We listen even when it looks like we aren't. Most times it looks like we aren't. That's because our minds are elsewhere.

Our minds are here and there, and there is where we are creating. We are telling stories when we are driving, walking, sleeping, talking.

I am looking at you with a smile, not because I think you are funny, but because I just snagged a bit of dialogue from our conversation.

That is how rude we are. We aren't listening to you. We are mining you for potential.

You could make a good character for our stories. We need a dastardly villain. You have nice teeth, but in our story, your teeth are yellow and rotten.

We might kill you.

You could be our hero. You are crying because life is hard, so hard, so very hard and you can't take it anymore. But you take it. That makes you strong. That moves us.

We are moved by so many things, but when you are strong, we are affected deep down inside. Resolution, under dogs triumphing in the face of stinky adversity, these things tickle us. We want to giggle and cry because you will be our hero, you are our hero, we are writing your story right now in our heads.

We might kill everyone you love. But you will be strong. You will survive.

Or you will sacrifice yourself for all and be remembered forever.

We will be good to you.

Do you see that person across the street? That poor fellow with bad hair? He is in our story too. We just put him there. He will get hit by a bus. Early in the plot. He is walking then SMACK! He is scattered.

We are morbid, sometimes.

But it is important, his death, I mean. He was not who he seemed. He seemed like a bozo with bad hair. But he is more. We don't know who he is. Not yet. We will find out. We won't forget him either.

We see curtains and think they would work. Our hero might drive that vehicle. This song should be playing in the background. That woman is wearing high heels and sweatpants, I'll have to put her in there somewhere. The donut shop has a funny saying on its sign today--got to remember that one.

It's everywhere. We call it fodder. You are fodder. Everything is fodder. We take it all in, we chew it all up. Some we swallow, we keep, we use, most we spit out.

I apologize for us. We can't hardly help it.

We are writers.

We are a little strange.

Menique

Pick up a recent novel by Dean Koontz and you're likely to find one or all of these things: the plant bougainvillea, a character who likes to mix cinnamon into their coffee, poetry or mention of a poet, a Ford Explorer or Expedition, the word "undulating", and of course . . . a dog.

Name any prolific author you'd like, and they are bound to have a number of things that always seem to pop up in their novels. Diet Coke, bands from the eighties, the word "beat". They all have something.

I'm coining a phrase for these things: Meniques. They are unique phrases, things or places that these authors find interesting or important for whatever reason. Is something unique if you use it in all of your novels? It is if you are the only one who uses it. That's when it becomes a menique object.

Now there is a difference between a menique and a rut. Frequent use of the word "very" is a rut.

The very heavy man sat on the couch, feeling very exhausted and very ready for a foot rub; if only he had a very lovely wife to give him a foot rub, but he didn't, because he was very ugly and smelled of something very unpleasant: body odor.

That is a very bad sentence, even without the verys.

I've noticed that I have started to develop some meniques. Since I was married and have become a father (three times!), every book I've written features a main character who is or was married and has children. I have written a thriller in which the main character is on the run but must first grab some diapers and his son's Elmo doll. One of my characters laments the fact that his growing daughter has stopped calling him "Daddy" and now refers to him as "Dad".

If I weren't a married man with children, I don't imagine that I would be writing these kinds of characters. I wonder if this will change as I change. Will all of my characters start wearing brown courdery jackets, develop a sudden fetish for jogging three miles a day, suffer from migraines, eat two handfuls of spinach and a clove of garlic for lunch, count their gray hairs, and wonder how they are going to survive until their thirtieth birthday?

By the way, that's not an accurate description of me. I don't have any gray hairs.

I laugh when I come across meniques in books. Maybe you've never noticed them before. Start looking for them in novels from your favorite writers. They're all over the place. They are a little glimpse into the life of the person on the other side of the words.

Is it any surprise that Dean Koontz has bougainvillea plants in his yard, mixes cinnamon into his coffee, enjoys poetry, drives a Ford Explorer, likes to undulate, and of course . . . has a dog? I don't think so. I'd also wager a bet that Mike Dellosso likes Diet Coke, Travis Thrasher listens to bands from the eighties, and Ted Dekker is beat from writing six books a year.

The secrets are in the meniques.

I do not have gray hair.

Plotting and Plodding

Before I get under way with this week's post, I feel there is some explaining I need to do. The fellow who infiltrated my blog last week, a chap by the name of Timothy West, is a real character from one of my abandoned projects. I did write 50,000 words of his book and then leave it.

I usually know if a story is working while I'm writing it. I look forward to getting back to it, the story is always buzzing in my mind, and I'm constantly thinking of the next scene, the next twist, the next big thing that's going to happen.

With the Timothy West book, this wasn't the case. It was odd, because I had planned a whole trilogy with this guy. I was really excited to dive in.

Sorry, Tim. Maybe another time. If it's any consolation, you would have found and rescued your wife in the end. Please accept my sincerest apologies for creating you and abandoning you. Go and finish your story as you see fit.

With the arrival of little Noah into our Ark of animals, I find myself with less time to work on writing. SURPRISE!

I know things will get back to some semblance of normal, and I'll be cracking open my eyelids at Six AM to sneak away for a few hours of pecking at the keyboard, but until then, I've been writing a lot in my head.

I'm formulating a new book idea, a very cool idea, an idea that has turned into a trilogy. I don't think this will be another Timothy West tragedy. In fact, I don't have time to write another bomb, so I'll make sure I've worked out all the major problems before I even get started.

Future Project: Lots of plotting.

Current Project: Lots of plodding.

I feel like an R2 unit with a bad motivator when it comes to my current project. The book is done, it is actually close to being ready to ship off my to agent. I just can't create enough time to sit down and finish up the last edits.

I'm thinking I need a can of NOSLEEP from the future. Maybe my future self can send me some, along with a couple completed manuscripts.

Ah, life. It's wonderful. Kids are wonderful. They can be little monsters, but then, what else should I expect?--they are my offspring.

Unfinished

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

Noah

Life. It is too beautiful to describe.

Our child was sleeping with us in the bed yesterday morning, still inside of his mother, safe from the unknown world.

The dawn. The day.

Heaven watched and breathed life.

Our child took his first breath. So small and fragile. This is life.

Our child was sleeping with us in the bed last night, between his mother and father, safe from the unknown world, now in the comfort of those who love him.

Welcome to the world, Noah.

Interview With Bestselling Novelist James Andrew Wilson Part Two

This week we continue our interview with my future self: bestselling novelist James Andrew Wilson.

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JAW: And then the miracle happened. The miracle that made you better.

James: Someday I'm going to write an autobiography, and nobody is going to believe what I'm about to tell you. But it's true. Every bit of it is true. I was paralyzed from the neck down. Never going to walk again. Then something happened that healed me and gave me back my hope.

JAW: It was a letter, wasn't it?

James: A text message, actually. Now I wasn't into texting like everybody else back then. Any time I received a text on my phone, I figured it was spam and deleted it. Since I couldn't move my hands, my wife kept busy checking emails and messages and that sort of thing. She saw the text message and showed me the phone. This is what it said:

YOU MUST GIVE IT UP

At the time, I figured it was a text from God, telling me to give up writing. We checked to see who the text came from. Surprise! It was from some guy called James Andrew Wilson.

JAW: From me? I don't like to text either.

James: (Laughs) See, this where things get a little nutty. You didn't send it, I didn't send it, but we both will send it. The future future James Andrew Wilson sent me a text telling me that I had to give it up.

Of course, at the time, I didn't know that it was a text from the future. I figured it was some sort of joke. Probably my brother, or Jake Chism, maybe Travis Thrasher. He's a nut, sometimes.

JAW: I can see any of those guys pulling something like that. So what did the text mean? What did you have to give up?

James: I said, "That's weird," and had my wife delete the message. Five minutes later another one came through. This time it said:

IF YOU WANT IT BACK

Again, it was from James Andrew Wilson. I was starting to get a little perturbed at this fellow. I had my wife send him a text message: Give up what if I want what back?

Then the reply:

GIVE UP EVERYTHING IF YOU WANT EVERYTHING BACK

Clearly this guy wasn't firing on all cylinders. I tried to forget about it. A stupid prank. Nothing was coming back. How could I give up everything?

JAW: What made you believe that the messages were true?

James: The guy kept sending me the messages! I finally shut off the phone. Then he sent me emails. I blocked him. Then letters in the mail. It just wouldn't stop. And it was the same message over and over: GIVE UP EVERYTHING IF YOU WANT EVERYTHING BACK.

Life was hard enough without this bozo taunting me with this false promise. It didn't even make sense. How could giving up everything give me everything? Real lame.

JAW: Wasn't it your son who said something that finally changed your mind?

James: Josiah was six at the time. He didn't know about the messages. We were putting him to bed, tucking him in. I was there in my wheelchair, watching my wife hug him. I felt sick. I just wanted to cry all the time.

I told him goodnight, and then I'll never forget what he said. He looked at me with his big blue eyes. Sweet, innocent voice. "You have to give everything up if you want it back, Daddy."

JAW: Creepy.

James: Yeah, just a little! I asked him where he heard that. He said the angel told him. I asked him what angel. The angel who lives on the roof, he said. He said it was the angel who pushed me off the roof.

JAW: What?

James: I was going to put in a replacement request for a new guardian angel.

So my son tells me this crazy story, and I'm not sure what to think about it. The next day, another letter in the mail. It says, YOUR SON IS TELLING THE TRUTH.

Okay, I thought. If this is a prank, it is a really, really good one. So I realized it couldn't be my brother, or Jake, or Travis. Great guys, but they aren't this good.

JAW: It was real. The messages, the angel pushing you, all of it. What did you do?

James: Had a little panic attack. The publishing house was getting ready to print copies of my first novel. They expected it to be a huge success. I was one of the most anticipated debut authors that year.

I called up my agent and told her it had to stop. They couldn't take the book to print. They couldn't take any of the books to print. I have to give it up.

She politely told me that I was an imbecile. This would ruin my career, I was throwing away my lifelong dream based on some cryptic text messages.

I insisted. We got the publisher to stop the printing. I had to return the advance. Feelings were hurt all around. Relationships were destroyed. I had just dropped a nuclear bomb on my future as an author.

JAW: But then, the healing came.

James: I was out in the backyard, watching the sunset. I was crying. I couldn't move from the shoulders down. I was never going to be an author. What could I do? How was I going to support my family? How could I live like this?

JAW: The angel spoke to you.

James: I told you nobody would believe this.

I heard this booming voice come from the roof behind me. I mean, it was so powerful, I would have jumped five feet off the ground if I wasn't paralyzed.

The voice said, "Now you can have it back. Never take it for granted."

I felt something surge through my body. I could move my hands. My feet. My legs. I could walk again.

I turned around and looked up at the roof to try and see my angel but--

JAW: He was gone.

James: Actually, I saw him. He looked just like Charlton Heston.

JAW: Seriously?

James: Nah, I'm kidding. I didn't see a thing. But I was healed. My body was back to normal.

I knew that I could never publish any of the books I'd written. That was hard because I had five finished novels at that time. I'd poured my heart and soul into these things. I had to put them away and start over.

JAW: How did the publishing world respond to your miraculous return?

James: They all abandoned me, except for my agent. She might have thought I was insane, and rightly so, but she stayed with me. I called her and told her that I was healed. We discussed a new project, one I just knew I had to write.

JAW: That was going to be your debut novel, right?

James: That's right. I wrote No Memories Attached in three weeks. Ten hour days. It completely consumed me. I had to get it out.

JAW: No Memories Attached went on to become a worldwide bestseller, and won a Pulitzer.

James: Yeah. I was given everything. Just like the messages said. I gave it all up and then it all came back.

But you know, looking back, I see now that I wasn't yet ready to be published. I was still young and naive. A starry eyed kid with a crazy imagination.

JAW: I know how you felt.

James: (Laughs) Yeah I bet you do.

JAW:It's been almost seven years since the release of No Memories Attached, you've risen to the top of numerous bestseller lists, you're read all around the world, what does the future hold for James Andrew Wilson?

James: There's no way to know the future. I'm living proof of that. I had my life and my career planned and then I was pushed off the roof by an angel and paralyzed from the neck down. You just don't plan for that sort of thing.

So I take it one day, one moment at a time. I will continue to write. I have to. I've got the twitch.

I am starting to work a new novel. I can't say too much at this point, except that this is going to be the best thing I've ever written.

JAW: That's what you said about your last five books.

James: And it was true every time! But there's something special about this one. I mean, if I die and I'm only remembered for one book, it will be this one.

JAW: Can't you give us at least a hint?

James: Okay. Here you go. It's a story about the beginning, the end, and all that happens between. (Laughs) Don't worry, you'll know all about it in another seven years.

JAW: I can't wait. James, it's been a pleasure talking with you. Thanks for sharing your incredible story.

James: Likewise. And the story isn't over yet. In fact, for you, it's just beginning.

Interview With Bestselling Novelist James Andrew Wilson

I recently sat down with my future self to discuss my career as a bestselling novelist. James shared his incredible story and offered some tantalizing hints about future projects.

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JAW: Thanks for joining me.

James: My pleasure. It's nice to see you again.

JAW: So here we are just two weeks away from the release of your latest novel, The Last Woman on Earth. How excited are you about this book?

James: Well, let me tell you. This is the best book I've ever written. I know I said that about my last novel, Five Years Tomorrow, but this one is better.

Here's the premise. The entire earth's population has been wiped out. Gone. Dead. Game Over. But two people have survived. One is Ransom Whitfield, a man who was just recently awarded the man of the year award by Time Magazine. He's a handsome movie star, a millionaire, a man who has it all.

The other survivor is a woman by the name of Sheila Mugwall. She is a burn victim. Half of her face is scared from the flames. You would cringe at the sight of her.

Ransom and Sheila meet up. They are the only people left on earth. The most handsome man alive meets the most ugly woman he's ever seen. She's the last woman on earth. Will they fall in love? Or will mankind be lost forever?

JAW: Wow. That sounds pretty interesting.

James: It's an idea I've had for a long time. It's going to blow people away. There's never been a book like this before.

JAW: I can't imagine there has. Now, you're incredibly successful, a #1 New York Times bestseller, you've been published in over twenty different languages. When you sit down to write, do you feel any pressure knowing that literally millions of people will be reading your next book?

James: Let me tell you something. You're a young writer, not yet published, so you don't know what it's like to really have people read your work. There is nothing more satisfying than knowing that my stories will be read all around the world.

JAW: So no pressure?

James: I'm not saying that I don't get a little panicky sometimes. I mean, who doesn't? But I know that I'm supposed to write, you know? If I didn't write, I'd just be stupid. I mean, I'd probably sit in the corner and just twitch or something.

JAW: I see that your hand is twitching now.

James: Yeah. That started shortly after I finished writing my fourth novel. It's my writer's twitch. My hand is always trying to write. I can't stop it.

JAW: Sounds frustrating.

James: You learn to live with it.

JAW: Take us back for a moment. Tell us how you made your big break.

James: Yeah, sure. So my agent, this sweet little gal, she had come to her wits end trying to sell my books. Nobody was buying these things. We got all sorts of nice rejections, but no deals. So I finally called her and said, "Look, this isn't going to happen. We should accept the fact that nobody is going to buy my work."

She told me that she would try one more time. She would take my strongest novel--I'd written four of them at this time--and she would send it to the last editor she knew.

I said, "Okay. Whatever. Why not?"

A week later: ring, ring. Guess what? It's my agent. She tells me she sold the book.

JAW: You were happy?

James: I almost peed my pants. Then she tells me that she not only sold one book, but the publisher wants to buy all four of my completed novels and sign me on for three more books.

JAW: That was huge.

James: It was bigger than huge. It was a dream come true. Better than winning American Idol. I literally floated off the ground I was so happy.

JAW: But then something bad happened.

James: I fell off my house and broke my back. I was paralyzed from the neck down. Couldn't even move my pinky.

JAW: What was going through your head?

James: A lot of bad words. Actually, I thought this couldn't be possible. I finally get published and will be able to write full time and now I can't even move my fingers. I ate a lot of fattening foods. Through a straw. I was depressed.

It was bad. Really bad.

JAW: You thought about killing yourself.

James: No, that's not true. I never thought about killing myself. That would be too easy. I wasn't going to give up. I was going to figure this out.

JAW: Your wife wrote your next book while you dictated it.

James: Yep. She's the greatest woman in the world. I really don't deserve her. She was so patient. We'd stay up late at night and she'd write and I'd talk. It took forever. When we finally finished the book, I didn't think I could ever do it again.

JAW: And then the miracle happened. The miracle that made you better.

James: Someday I'm going to write an autobiography, and nobody is going to believe what I'm about to tell you. But it's true. Every bit of it is true. I was paralyzed from the neck down. Never going to walk again. Then something happened that healed me and gave me back my hope.

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Tune in next week to hear James's amazing story of healing and to get a tantalizing hint about his upcoming project.

How Long?

There are a lot of factors that determine how long it takes to write a novel. How fast do you write, how long or short is the book going to be, how strong is your coffee, do you have any toddlers at home?

According to my research, most novels fall anywhere between 80,000 and 120,000 words, probably a good average being around 90,000. That makes about a 350 page book, depending on font size, margins, etc.

Remember back in grade school when you had to write a two-hundred word paper? Yikes!

My mom teaches fourth grade at a little private school. I've gone into her class a couple times to talk about writing. One time I brought in a printed draft of my second novel. I pulled out this huge ream of paper (485 printed sheets, double spaced, one sided). The book was just over 100,000 words.

"Whoa! That's huge!"

"So," I said, hefting the pages, "how many words do you think are in this book?"

Hands flew up. "Three thousand! One thousand and twelve. Ten thousand!" The kids laughed. Who is this dork who thinks it's ten thousand words? Nobody could ever write ten thousand words.

I wrote the guesses on the board then wrote the actual amount beneath them and circled all those zeros.

The dork smiled.

Writing a novel is something that only insane people should attempt. If you are not insane and you do attempt to write a novel, you should be warned that should you finish the novel, you will become insane.

So let's say you are a fast writer. You can type forty words a minute. Hey, how hard can this be? I'll be done writing this thing in under fifty hours. That's like one work week. No big deal.

If you think this, then at least you have the first requirement to writing a novel: You are insane.

Forty words a minute quickly diminishes to twelve a minute when you write that first page and then . . . uh . . . then something big and important happened here and, uh, and I think maybe I need to do some more outlining or something.

Second requirement to writing a novel: Ridiculous imagination.

I'm not talking about simple daydreaming. That might get you fifty pages through a novel, a cool 10,000 words. But you have to be insane, and full of ridiculous ideas to go all the way. You have to be willing to take your characters way off the deep end, into the uncharted and then beyond.

Can you imaging flying? Is it easy to envision man-eating aliens roaming your city? Do you create weird/humorous back stories about random people you see on the street? Good. You might have what it takes.

Third requirement: Ruthlessness.

You have to be brutal. If you manage to create strong, likable characters, you have to be able to put them through the worst possible scenario imaginable.

"But I like Sally too much to do that to her."

"Too bad. The story will be much stronger if her dog is run over by a truck."

"But she loves that dog!"

"Exactly. That's why it needs to be run over."

"You're sick."

And Sally had a dog and she loved that dog and nothing ever happened and she lived happily ever after with her dog and nobody cared.

There are more requirements to writing a novel, but we'll stick with these three for now.

You're insane, you have a ridiculous imagination, you are ruthless, and you've read half a dozen books about how to write a novel, and you've subscribed to Writer's Digest, and you've read thirty bestselling novels in the genre you want to write, and you are willing to close your door to the rest of the world and take a long, lonely journey of heartache and joy, and pour out all of your blood and your tears and risk carpal tunnel to tell a story that might never get published.

Good.

So . . . how long will it take you?

Let's suppose that you are like me. You have been thinking about a book idea for months, maybe years. Over that time, you have tweaked the plot in your head, you have added and taken away characters, you have a good idea how it will start, the half way twist, and the big ending. You sit down and write a three to five page synopsis of the story. This will take you about a week, considering that you also have a life and a job and a family and you have to sleep.

With synopsis in hand, you will start a schedule of going to bed at 10:30 PM and waking up at 6:00 AM. While the rest of the house sleeps, you will sneak away to your office and begin the journey. After a week or two, you will fall into the groove of the story and start pounding out about 1000 words an hour. Your goal will be 2000 words a day. Some days you will get more, some days less.

By 9:00 AM your writing time is finished and the house is awake and you are needed elsewhere.

If all goes well, you will have a completed first draft in your hands in three or four months. It will look huge. Almost 500 pages of copy paper. You will have written that. You will smile and feel like a king.

You will then let your spouse or your trusted "First-Reader" look at the book. This is the first time you have shared it with anyone. You will be tempted to watch them read every page. They will mark it with a red pen. You will ask them what they thought about certain scenes. You will go crazy waiting for them to get to the end.

Since they love you, they will read the book in less than a week. They will tell you that it is great, wonderful, amazing . . . but there are some things that need to be changed.

"What!? But it's perfect! I edited it! I wrote it!"

Then you will come back to reality, see that they are right, and dive into the second draft. There is no way to say how long this draft will take you. You may have to do like I did for my third novel and rewrite nearly 50,000 words of the 100,000 word book. That will hurt.

Or it may be that you actually did do a fine job and the second draft edits will only take you two weeks. Who knows. It's always different.

After that, you will send it to your agent. She will read it as soon as she can. She is very busy and you aren't her only client. In the meantime, you should start writing something else.

Your agent will send you some notes when she is done. "It's great, it's wonderful, it's amazing . . . but there are some things that need to be changed."

You will come back to reality, you will take her suggestions, you will rework it again.

When you are happy with it, when your spouse is happy with it, when your agent is happy with it, she will start to shop it around.

Yes! Finally! The world will see your genius!

In the meantime, you should start writing something else.

By this time, you will have invested approximately six months of your life into this project. You will be exhausted, exhilarated, and likely a little shaky from too much coffee and not enough sleep.

You will check your email and phone messages every day to see if you agent tried to contact you to tell you about the big book deal she's landed for you.

In the meantime, you should start writing something else.

Then, one day, FINALLY, your agent will call, and you will almost drop the phone in excitement, and your agent will say--

I'm not sure what she'll say. I let you know when that happens.

In the meantime . . . well, you know.

BoxWorld

Contrary to popular belief, the world is actually square. It is a box. There are six sides and you live on one of them.

Most people live on the top side. They are right side up. They have their head in the clouds. Everything is held down by gravity. Nobody gets too close to the edge because you might fall.

There are a large number of people who live on the sides of BoxWorld. They have built platforms that extend outward and can be seen from above. It is a dangerous life, there on the side. They are exploring territory that isn't safe, protected, guarded, or easy to navigate. They are creating art.

On the bottom of the box, there a few people trying to hold on. The people up top think the bottom dwellers have lost their minds, living down there. But the bottom dwellers are dreamers. They don't see the fact that at any moment they could fall into space as a problem. You see, the bottom of BoxWorld is the only place where you can create magic.

The bottom dwellers are writing, singing, painting, touching something eternal. Yes, they might fall. At any moment, all of their heavy ideas could dislodge them from the box and send them out into the unknown. But they refuse to return to safer ground. They hold on, they inspire the people on the sides, they confuse the people above, they make everybody wonder--if only for a moment--about the Beyond.

Let go. . . .

Drift. . . .

In space. Floating. Outside of the box. Do you see them? There are so few. They aren't weighed down by gravity. They aren't busy building platforms. They aren't holding on with one hand. They are free. They are weightless. They create beauty that we cannot describe. It comes to us, as if from the heavens. There are only a few out here. They are the truly daring. The timeless. There is Tolkien, there is Lewis, there is Mozart, there is Rembrandt.

But they are dead, you say.

They are alive. We see them every day. We marvel at their art. We try to emulate it. We call it classic. We call it Masterpiece.

Dwell here for a moment. . . .

Bravery

Sacrifice

Passion

Brilliance

They are the drifters. They are Beyond. They are free.

Where are you?

The Future!

"Welcome to the library of the future. This is where you will be in ten years. And here we are--"

"Where are the books?"

"Books? Oh, don't you know? Kids became uninterested in books five years ago. To keep them coming to the library, we installed these virtual reality gaming stations in place of bookshelves."

"What are they drinking?"

"It's the latest thing. All natural, sugar free, environmentally friendly NEVERSLEEP energy drink."

"They never sleep?"

"They don't have to! NEVERSLEEP supplies the body with all the nutrients it needs to function without ever sleeping."

"That doesn't sound very safe."

"Scientists have confirmed that there are no traceable side effects to the continual use of NEVERSLEEP."

"These kids don't look very happy."

"Why do you say that?"

"They aren't smiling."

"Their brains are plugged into the virtual reality systems. They're smiling in the virtual world, I can assure you of that."

"What exactly are they playing?"

"WORLD OF WONDER."

"What do they do in there?"

"Anything they want! They can fly, ride dragons, fight monsters, build cities. And the best thing of all, there is no reading required to play the game."

"I thought this was the library. Isn't that what the library is all about? Reading?"

"The library is a place where we encourage the exploration of the world."

"But these kids aren't in the world. They're in Wonderland."

"They are learning social interaction."

"Are there any books here?"

"Right this way. And here we are."

"But this is only one bookshelf."

"We actually have more books here at this library than most around the nation."

"Doesn't anybody read in the future?"

"As you can see, there are many people at our digital book reader stations."

"Ah, I see that. Wait a minute! They aren't reading books. They're browsing the internet."

"Our digital book reader stations are state of the art and come with full internet browsing capabilities."

"Why aren't there any words on the internet?"

"The national No Illiterate Person Left Behind Act required all websites to remove any unecessary words from their sites to better serve the whole of mankind."

"This is unbeliveable."

"Yes, we pride ourselves on being with the times."

"Can I check out one of these books?"

"Uh, well, nobody is allowed to actually take any of these books from the library."

"What?"

"These are actually the property of the government."

"Can I look at one of them?"

"They are incased in an airtight container."

"Do you have the key."

"No."

"So why are they here?"

"They serve as a reminder of how far we have evolved."

"Can you take me back now, please?"

"Oh, of course. And as a complimentary gift for visiting the future, I would like to offer you this sample can of NEVERSLEEP. It's the new flavor: Insomniberry."

"Uh."

"Thank you. Have a nice day. See you in ten years."