a book without a name


like a book without a name,

the story is still being written.

the author,

clever and clever enough to recall the wise words of her previously loathed fifth-grade English teacher

reminding her that the last step in storytelling is finishing the novel with a title.


perhaps, if done too prematurely, the characters may take a different path.

they will all-of-a-sudden drop their daily tasks and jump into a new plot following a vague phrase meant to overlay the message as a whole;

the detour will cost the writer wasted time and endless headaches; she keeps grasping desperately for some structure and potence to hang onto while she ignores the voice in the back of her head telling her it just isn’t working

while the characters will go unquestionably into their new actions with the energy and engagement unlike anything seen before throughout their 49-page-long existence (with questionable morals, of course, since we aren’t that deep into the character development quite yet);

they will eventually either find, fumble, or fall back into their original ways and go on making the same old mistakes—

just in different fonts.


any expert storyteller knows that a good character is just as real as an actual person,

any expert storyteller knows that a good character takes shape in their own mind,


they go on to live an exceptional life, not necessarily adjacent to their own, 

but both a romanticized version of a passing thought or two and exhilaratingly different from the ordinary that consumes her years nonetheless.


the most magical thing about it all comes down to the very inner-workings of a character.

the way that a few words sitting idle atop the oldest shelf in the back of a forgotten attic—

the kind that hasn’t been opened since the previous owners of the house used it to store items they peculiarly chose to leave behind from their departure from their home.

they will be picked up by the curious child, barely even five years old (but don’t tell her that), and

they will be dusted off as if they were some new toy dropped in the grass during the trek from the car to the front door in the hurry for a Crustable after a full half-day of kindergarten—the crushable she’ll put on her favorite purple plastic plate.

she will then rearrange those very words and create a backbone and a sturdy skeleton structure of a person who doesn’t actually exist.


the interesting thing about characters from books is that they both exist inside of their world and ours—

their physical existence, per say, is confined to the limits of a 467-page book,

whereas they can live on with infinite plotlines in the imagination of the reader who truly believed in a very good book.