h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

You made me think of this:
http://www.gurdjieff.org/rainoird2.htm

Hullo Chris! mmm this looks interesting, will check this out. Thanks!

I kind of like that title you used, Some Characters In Search Of An Author. That creates a new pattern of thought, it would make a good story, eh? Some characters in search of an author. There's no limit to this!

I would write the story myself, but I'll leave it to the extremely adept narrative-weavers who I know around here. Think I'll go ask, bet they want payment. haha. I will offer a whisper and a cup of wine. . No . Actually, its your title, better not steal, story please??

Well, to be honest I did sort of steal it from Pirandello
I've always felt like a character in search of an author which is probably why I found Gurdieff so interesting.

I was thinking of a game for two writers. The first writer starts out by suggesting a character - say 'Write about a bored looking man in a suit and hat, sitting on a bench by a park'.
They both write for a while, then the second writer comes up with a character.
Adding a copy of the H2g2 book and a white feather might make it too difficult!

That's interesting, Chris. You've always felt like a character in search of an author?

I've been trying to become this phrase, from the inside, to see what my version is.

Well, at the moment, I'm a song. . I've become a song. Which cannot realise its full potential, it cannot fully come into being, find its life, until it finds a singer to sing it. Kind of like a Jim Steinmann song, looking for Meatloaf. Or not. Symbiotic relationship. Interdependent.

That's a good word eh? Symbiotic. Although it perhaps refers more to animals or plants, not song and singer, or human interdependent relationships?

Now I'm going to go and become a song.

Become an outfit. Then go over to the 'Writing Right' column and describe yourself for the catalogue.

Hullo mvp! This sounds like a really good game.

So, in the previous post, I just became a song, looking for a singer . Which is completely missing the point, but now I really need to go there. So..

So, can I be the first writer?

OK, so maybe I'll have to adapt a bit.

Here I go, first writer.

Write about a person who is walking along a city street, wearing a small black backpack full of songs, handwritten on scraps of paper. At one point they stop in front of an hotel, look up to the fourth floor, then go on their way, junk the contents of the pack into a bin, and catch a bus.

Actually, you know what? I'm hoping Writer Two will not just find the character, but write the entire story for me.

Its a good game, though. I like it. I'm going to work on it.

Oh, hullo Mister D. Become an outfit? That's interesting. Very interesting. Black jeans, t-shirt with some kind of logo, which would explain why, when, where and how the song will find its singer.

Catalogue? Oh, OK I'll think about this also.

OK, here is my story to go with your prompt.

'Francesca walked along the Esplanade, wearing a small black backpack. It was full of songs, handwritten scraps of paper. She had worked so hard, trying to produce something wonderful, sublime. Something told her that, with another tweak or two, it would be perfect.

She stopped and looked up at the facade of he Grand Hotel, ignoring the middle aged man in a suit who was sitting on a bench. He wore a white feather in his lapel and watched her with some interest.
But she was thinking of the great man, the famous composer, who was staying there, Would he, could he, be persuaded to look at her songs?

In the end, she sighed. The songs would never be good enough. She stuffed her songs in a liter bin and hurried to catch a bus. The man with a feather in his lapel moved fast. He jumped up, retrieved the pieces of paper and scrambled onto the bus as it started to move.

"Excuse me, you dropped these," he said to Francesca. "You don't need to know who I am but take my advice. Send your songs to the great composer. Don't wory that they're not perfect. Nothing ever is."

Hah! Splendid mvp! This is a good game! That's the story! I could get into this. Provided you write the stories.

And the writer gets in there as well, and the white feather! I love it when he gets onto the bus.

Don't worry that they're not perfect. Nothing ever is. Hmm, that's profound you know. Good central theme, going to consider.

Thanks

Character

'A grey haired woman walked round her overgrown garden, talking to the plants. Although she didn't expect them to reply, she had a feeling they were aware of her presence on some level. As she passed a bush, she saw a white feather on the lawn, and another at the gate. She was sure they weren't there a few minutes ago. It was almost as if someone was laying a trail for her.'

Ah that's amazing, mvp.

It could take many routes, this paragraph.

Of course, I see it as a perfect little painting in itself. I can see the lady, talking to her plants. I see it all. Its a photograph I guess. I love this paragraph. Hmm.

I wish my narrative would take many routes. . I stare at paragraphs like this and realise that my narrative did, in fact, take a strange turning off the roundabout, many years ago, probably before I even went to school.

I'm going to consider this. Not quite the story I'm meant to be writing, , but I like the bends in this journey, heading back to the roundabout, see what the signpost says.

To be honest, I don't know where this story should go.

I suppose the old woman in her garden is partly me but there are no white feathers on my lawn.

A song's not a song 'til you sing it (when you're 16 going on 17...).

Yes, Dmitri, I burst into song at the drop of a relevant phrase.

Cactuscafe, the world is a stage and we are all players on it (Shakespeare).

Chris, we are more than six characters in search of an author. We are also many writers in search of some worthy characters. But there's a catch-22 lurking in that. There's a lot of rich material all around us, but as soon as we fictionalize it, people we know (even somewhat) get upset because they think we've written about *them* . Someone (Thurber, I think) wrote about a brilliant young writer who was writing the next great screenplay. He never actually finished it or submitted it to anybody, at which point he would have ceased being the young man with great potential. Barton Fink showed what happens when you finish your great screenplay: everyone is disappointed and begins calling you a failure.

The world is strange indeed....

Paul, yes I think all human reality is Catch-22. As individuals, we can only make sense of our lives by creating a narrative based on what we see reflected from other people but, in order to be individuals, we have to differentiate ourselves in some way that undermines other individuals' narratives.

That's a really good explanation!