Hi. I’m Lucy.
Sorry, did you want something?
Oh. Yeah. Right. I’m 16, four foot four, brown hair, hazel eyes, slim, last seen wearing jeans and a pink blouse. Do not approach, £10 reward.
Only joking. Seriously, though, don’t you ever find that annoying? The way that people think you need to know every single detail of a character’s appearance, down to the colour of their underwear?… No, I’m not telling you. No way.
Anyway. Getting distracted again. Goddamn it, Lucy! Keep it together. They’ll take away my First Person Narrative Licence if I’m not careful. Then I’ll end up as some background character with three lines of description and twenty seconds of speech…
Look, it’s pink, ok?
Yeah. Ok. Right. Where was I? Oh, no, don’t tell me, I know. Description. Ok, I can probably best describe myself by telling you that I’m a member of the Pony Club. Yep, I’m a horse person. So shoot me. I’m also sporty, arty and poetic in nature.
Phew. Glad that’s over with. Maybe now we can finally get started. See you on the other side!
INITIALISING READER FEEDBACK
REBOOTING ITALIC FORMATTING
COMMENCING NARRATIVE CAUSALITY
--------------------------------------------------------I hurried across Central Plaza, checking the elegant watch which had been adorning the wrist of Queen Alexandria, who I had just been playing in a first edition copy of Queens In History. Which is where I wish they’d stay, to be honest- Queen Elizabeth the First had spent the last half hour boring me senseless, while I should have been rushing through Non-Fiction en route to Sexual Central to keep the appointment which I was now late for. Brilliant start to the week.
Dashing through the elegant glass doors of Sexual Administration (now there’s a contradiction), I almost ran up to the high reception desk and leaned on the bell. Within a few seconds, I was subject to the disapproving stare of a CIW, or Character-In-Waiting. This one happened to be female, and, due to the section she was working in, also happened to be naked. Which wasn’t helping the concentration of the hot, incredibly fit… Whoa Lucy, snap out of it! The… MAN who was slowly sweeping the polished marble floor. Anyway- RAMBLING AGAIN!
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the CIW, who sounded around eighty-seven, despite having the body of a twenty year old.
“Yes” I gasped, still breathless after my run- and being knocked dead by the hot- I mean, the cleaner. “I’m here to see Mr Masters.”
The CIW nodded, and tapped rapidly on her computer keyboard with her ludicrously long nails. “He will see you straight away, Miss Young.” she announced. I smirked at her disgruntled expression, and walked off briskly towards the lifts. Which meant that I then looked a complete idiot when I had to go back and ask for directions.
Eventually, I reached the imposing door marked ‘MASTERS, J.’ Panting with exertion, I leaned against the door briefly, then managed to summon the strength to give a would-be-confident rap on the dark mahogany.
“Come!” Called an imposing voice from within. I smiled briefly at the innuendo, then sharply told myself to grow up. I opened the door and strode in, attempting (probably unsuccessfully) to exude an air of confidence and authority. Closing the door behind me, I turned and faced the Director of Sexual and Fetish Fiction, using the mirror behind him to reassure myself that everything was buttoned or unbuttoned as it should be and pointing in the right direction.
“Ah, Miss Young” the husky voice murmured. “I believe you wish to apply for a vacancy?”
“Yes, sir. Reference 2755/DRT65”
“I see. Do you have experience in First-Person Fetish?”
“I see.” The words were invested with a sense of finality, a suggestion of permanence. “Then may I enquire what on earth makes you think that I would consider hiring an expert in Classics and Non-Fiction for a highly demanding role in one of our most popular sections?”
I swallowed. It was now or never. Here goes…
“Because frankly sir, I know damn well that you’re desperate.”
The eyebrows rose. The pencil stopped tapping on the desk. The eyes scrutinised me from head to toe. I made sure he got the full benefit of my clothes, hair and everything. Especially the everything. Finally, Masters leaned back in his chair.
“Ok Miss Young, I admit it. We’re stuck. This is…shall we say, a particularly specialised fetish fiction. If we don’t find someone to fill the role, the character will flop. The story will fail, sex stories as a genre will lose popularity, levels of sexuality in other genres will fall and we’ll have a worldwide crisis on our hands. You’re right. You have a First Person licence, you can handle the narrative and the dialogue, you’re in. Report to Production Block 54A, first thing tomorrow. And send your measurements to Costuming.”
“Very well, sir. Thankyou.”
And I left his office, left the building, went home and slept.
**********************************SHUTTING DOWN ALL SYSTEMS
SENDING EVENTS TO NOVEL STORAGE
ENABLING IMMERSION BREAKS
********************************** Heavy going, huh? I know, I know, I missed the refresher course on not over-describing. And then the one on not under-describing. Still, I reckon I’ve done ok.
I bet you all want to know what the hell’s going on, huh? Allow me to refer you to chapter 4 of the ‘Parallel Dimension Guide’
There exists a dimension which is solely concerned with ‘producing’ the events of a book, rather as Hollywood produces films. It’s extremely difficult to explain, so I’m not going to bother.
I hope you’re all enjoying it! Guess I’ll see you next time.
Lots of love