An Author's Struggle - What Lies Ahead

Ch 2 - draft.txt

A lengthy remembrance…

Murphy’s journey started on a hot spring day like any other. Struggling to sleep, he groggily opened his eyes and stared into the dark. Across the bleak canvas of the twilight sky, vivid visions came into view. 

Their whispers enthralling, but distorted, like a distant psychedelic trip. Alas, too brief. It did not last. Before long, he was awake. The story faded as quickly as it emerged, unseen. 

His mind found itself preoccupied in no time, chasing away the possibility of him getting any rest before dawn. Unwilling to spend even the weekend mulling about his dull job, or the tiresome family gathering he was set to attend that day, he reigned his mind under control. 

It was no easy feat to guide one’s thoughts, but he had enough practice. As a child born in a destitute country, if there was one thing children could afford — it was time to think. 

He tore his mind away from the banality of everyday worries, and guided his somewhat lucid imagination towards something more interesting. A fantasy, a world he shared with no one.

As thoughts streamed into his mind, a full world formed. Time unwound back like an old cinema roll, and he saw medieval cities, towering walls, fearsome bulwarks, and streets caked in dirt and misery. 

The gruesome reality of the past tickled his imagination, and within that struggle he found a spark that resonated with him.

Thus, his first character was born. An orphan, sandals torn, running through a market in search for food. Possessing nothing and fearing nothing, he owned the whole world. The boy’s courage and plight infected him, but it was not vivid enough.

The premise was too gloomy to be worth dreaming about, the orphan’s destiny too swamped in misery. Thus, he added magic to the world — and it gained color.

In that world only he knew, he was a deity. As long as he imagined and believed, it would become real. At least for a while… The most annoying thing about dreams is that they are known to fade, so he had to catch them.

Pushing himself out of bed with an unwilling groan, Murphy opened his laptop without even bothering to wash his face. The dream was lapsing, his mortal mind fickle and easy to distract.

It was 05:45, but the time did not bother him. Ignoring the flickering red blimps on his notifications tab, for the very first time, he put his dreams above else.

A few words on a notepad. That was all it took. 

That simple beginning was the foundation of his rise as one of the top writers of his genre. The lucky lottery ticket that changed his life forever. 

That basic draft.txt turned him into a writer. A craftsman of realms.

And so, Murphy henceforth became Morpheus — the weaver of dreams.

Whether that morning dream was a true blessing or a benign curse, remained to be seen. What was known with certainty, however, was that his life would be upended from that day onward. 

- —    ✎    — -

“So… I’m thinking of writing a book,” Murphy began, sizing up his large family.

His off the cuff remark didn’t freeze the room. No one paused with their fork next to their mouth, nor stared at him as if he were a freak. Nothing so dramatic, no. 

Their reactions were subdued, but just as deafening. 

“Oh?” someone assented at last, though without any genuine curiosity.

“Are you sure you want to waste your time on that?” his brother continued. 

“I heard most writers earn on average less than 6,000 a year. How do you intend to get by?”

‘And there it is…’ Murphy thought with a forlorn smile, ‘money.’

Ultimately, it all came down to something as banal as money. The world was no Garden of Eden, and without sustenance, it would be beyond foolish to think of achieving one’s dreams. 

That type of thought was ingrained in him ever since he was a child, when he had been put to work along the rest of his family, irrespective of age. 

Westerners might balk in horror and scream of child labor, of cruelty and laws, but to him it was normal. In retrospect, he appreciated those life lessons, no matter how arduous they seemed back then. They turned him into a realistic thinker, and gave him the foresight to ponder the best call.

‘Can I sustain myself with that?’ he wondered, his mind no longer on the same wavelength as his family. They had long since lapsed into the same old topics: religion and politics. He found those dull, and so he silenced them. 

His family had already grown used to his isolated behavior, so they paid no heed to him as he ran numerous calculations in his mind.

Food, clothing, housing — the bare minimum. In a metropolis like Paris, it would already drain him just short of a thousand to get by. There was nothing to cut out of that, so his math did not add up. Without a concurrent job, it would be all but impossible to weave his dream into reality. 

“So, what are you going to write about?” a child’s hand poked him from the side just as the family was about to lapse in another tirade about the latest war. 

“Oh.” Murphy smiled, earnestly happy to share, “It’s a fantasy book, about a mage reincarnating into a medieval setting… I’m thinking the Inquisition era, the dynamics between the church and magic would make a good sett—“

“Magic?” his mother interrupted with genuine lament, “My boy, why don’t you write something else instead?” 

She seemed worried, but not for his dream’s feasibility, but his soul. She didn’t take his feelings into account, because her priorities stretched far higher than that.

What was misery on earth compared to an everlasting heaven? This is how they coped with the mundane rigors of life, but it could not work for him. It never had.

“You shouldn’t write such evil nonsense. Why don’t you read the bible instead? Magic is the work of the devil and demons.”

“She’s right, Murphy,” his brother chimed in, “You’d better give up.”

‘Give up?’ he shook his head with a hidden smile, ‘I haven’t even started yet!’