Writers are notorious for suffering from Imposter Syndrome, writers’ block, and chronic procrastination. I, myself, struggle with these neuroses every day. They never completely go away, but I have discovered how to become a more confident writer.
I started writing ten years ago, having virtually no idea what I was doing. Although I managed to finish a few novels and novellas, I knew there were issues with my writing. The problem was, I couldn’t tell what they were.
In 2019, I finally decided to take my writing seriously and signed up for my first writing class—Contemporary Dark Fiction with Richard Thomas. He’s the award-winning author of three novels, three short story collections, two novellas, and over 150 short stories.
Required reading for the class was four novels, sixteen articles, and sixteen short stories. The work included weekly writing assignments, four complete short stories (one per month), four analyses of the assigned novels, and critiques of the eight other student’s monthly stories. We also met once a week on video conference to discuss the week’s material.
I do not have a college degree. What little I knew about fiction I learned from reading my favorite authors and Google. To say this class was intimidating was an understatement!
But I dove into it and was amazed at my output. There was something about putting up my hard-earned money and being forced to deadlines that made me push myself beyond my perceived limits. The analysis of the stories, the exploration of what other writers were doing, and the giving and receiving of feedback from the students, especially from Richard Thomas himself, advanced me more in four months than all I’d learned on my own the seven years prior. I went into that class a bumbling novice and came out the other side feeling like, hey, I think I can do this!
Since working with Richard Thomas, I have fast-tracked my writing career and have accumulated a body of quality work. Four of the short stories I wrote in his classes have been accepted by notable anthologies. Now that I’ve earned professional rates for my stories, I was able to become an active member of the Horror Writers Association.
My writing style has gelled. I know what I can do, how I want to do it, and where my work belongs. I no longer look at other authors getting acceptances and being published, wondering what the secret is. When I think about how lost and unsure I was three years ago, I could kick myself for not investing in a serious writing class sooner. I’m now in my third class with Richard Thomas, his Advanced Creative Writing Workshop.
So, my advice to any new writers out there, or any writers who’ve been struggling for a long time, is to find a writing group, course, critique circle, or workshop. Do not keep doing the same things over and over again, wondering why you’re not getting anywhere.
Knowledge equals confidence. The more you know, the better you can wield your creative powers. Give your writing the chance it deserves. Keep learning, keep growing.
The beautiful thing about writing fiction is you’ll always be evolving, but it’s up to you to invest in yourself!
Last month, we announced our Writers Mastermind Short Story Contest winners. In this series, I interview each of them to discover the soul behind their story.
Today we talk to Yong Takahashi, author of The Elements. You’ll learn about her struggles as a Korean immigrant and how she writes all her drafts in longhand on pink legal pads.
Meet Yong Takahashi – The Elements (FINALIST)
Yong Takahashi is the author of Observations Through Yellow Glasses: A Memoir Through Poems, Rising, Sometimes We Fall, and The Escape to Candyland. She was a finalist in The Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing, Southern Fried Karma Novel Contest, Gemini Magazine Short Story Contest, The Writers’ Mastermind Short Story Contest, and The Sexton Prize for Poetry.
Yong’s YA novel, Camp Detroit, will be published in 2023. To learn more about Yong, visit: linktr.ee/yongtakahashi
OBSERVATIONS THROUGH YELLOW GLASSES
Yong Takahashi moved to The United States with her parents when she was three years old. She grew up in a traditional household where her Korean and American worlds pulled her in opposite directions. Shortlisted for The Sexton Prize for Poetry, OBSERVATIONS THROUGH YELLOW GLASSES invites you to follow her journey as she learns life’s bitter lessons, longs for love, and attempts to heal the wounds she collects along the way.
1. Tell us a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Where are you now? What has your life been like?
I was born in Seoul, South Korea and grew up in Detroit, Michigan. Currently, I live in Atlanta, Georgia. I was the only Asian student in a newly desegregated school. The white students lived on one side of the highway and the black students lived on the other. I remember the landlord telling my parents we could choose which side because we were yellow. Trying to fit in was difficult and a lot of the pain in my writing comes from surviving childhood. Some of my experiences are in my memoir, Observations Through Yellow Glasses: A Memoir Through Poems.
2. What kind of stories do you like to write? I write poetry, songs, short stories, and novels.
I tend to lean towards darker storytelling. Many of my protagonists don’t have happy endings or struggle to find them. I find this is more realistic as life is not wrapped up in a bow.
3. What sets you apart from other writers in your space?
I blend my Korean and American experiences into my work. It tends to be a tightrope walk between the two cultures.
4. What drives your writing? What do you mean to accomplish with your stories?
I want the reader to see a perspective other than their own. I want them to say: Could that really happen? Well, maybe it could. Let me read it again.
5. Who are you favorite writers and books? What are your other creative influences?
My favorite book is The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. It is the only book I’ve read more than twice. The Inspector Gamache books by Louise Penny are the only ones I wait for each year. I don’t really read mystery but her words are just magical.
6. Tell us about your writing space. When and where do you write? Do you work in silence? Or music?
I usually listen to music while I make my to do lists and drink coffee. Then, I start writing or editing. It needs to be completely silent for my editing or writing sessions. If I’m at a coffee shop, I wear noise cancellation headphones. Prior to the pandemic, I wrote at Starbucks for three to five hours a day. Then, I’d come home to type my notes. Now, I write in my backyard or in bed.
7. What is your favorite thing to do when you are not writing?
I binge watch all my recorded shows. I just finished the 23rd season of Law & Order: SVU. I’m on season eight of the original Law & Order.
8. Who is your current artistic muse?
I study songwriters. I also watch cover artists on YouTube before my writing sessions.
9. Why do you think it’s important to write fiction?
I think every form of writing is important: poetry, fiction, nonfiction. However, fiction allows me to create worlds I could never live in. It lets me insert myself into situations that would never happen in real life.
10. Who would be the best writer, alive or dead, to tell the story of your life?
I absolutely love Louise Penny’s way of drawing the reader into her stories. It would be an honor if she’d write about me or just join me for coffee.
11. What are you working on right now?
I’m editing a YA novel. I hope to complete it next month. It will be published in 2023.
There were three who came to the outpost to hunt. The first was a young woman of eighteen. She was timid and bird-like, with a pale skin and eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep. The second was a man of twenty-eight. He was thin and had a rather morose countenance, but his large liquid eyes had some melancholy beauty about them. The third was a forthright woman of forty-two, and I was relieved that she, at least, had some steel and conversation about her.
I had been at the outstation for almost twelve years, and it was not unusual for groups to come hunting Anxieties. The jungle surrounding my bungalow was crawling with the creatures, or so I was told.
‘You’re lucky not to have seen one,’ the older woman, whose name was Lori Braddock, explained.
She was short and stout, her expression perennially suspicious, and when she looked at you square on you became aware of a tired, haunted aspect behind her eyes.
‘I’m in no doubt that you’re right,’ I replied.
We were sitting on rocking chairs on my veranda, smoking cheroots and drinking gin pahits as we looked towards the river. A chorus of cicadas sang nearby, quietly at first, before reaching a glorious crescendo that seemed to awaken the entire jungle.
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’ I asked, already knowing the answer. Braddock had met with mild success a decade earlier with a collection of essays about the post-war experience. I had read and enjoyed her essays, though I had heard mixed reviews about her subsequent works.
‘A miserable writer, if the critics are to be believed,’ she answered. ‘You have no idea how it cripples one to read disparaging remarks about the written incarnation of your soul.’
‘What have the critics ever written?’ I said consolingly. ‘I am sure flamingos lose no sleep when the pigeons write their critiques of pink.’
Braddock said nothing to this, but I saw the beginnings of a smile as her lips closed around the cheroot. A tendril of smoke spiraled from the tip.
‘And you,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve been here a long time.’
I took a draw on the cheroot, enjoying the thick aromas of cedar and spices. ‘The surroundings soothe me.’
‘It seems to me a rather dark place, a realm of shadows and the unknown. But I suppose to a naturalist it must be quite fitting.’
‘And not entirely unknown,’ I replied with a grin. ‘I find that if people do not run from darkness their eyes soon adjust to it. Now that the colonists have gone-’
‘With their tails rightly between their legs,’ Braddock interjected. ‘I hear one of the plantation managers stayed on here for a time afterwards. You were close, weren’t you?’
I sipped my drink before answering. ‘Langley, yes, he was a capable man. I first made his acquaintance on my travels here. He was quite helpful in assisting me with my research, and for a time we maintained a close friendship. In the end, I believe, he missed the comforts of home.’
‘And are you not lonely? You were once quite a fixture of London society, from what I gather.’
‘Oh, I have guests often enough, and there are some small towns upriver. I find that I get on quite well with the native population, and I’m afraid the idea of London society does not thrill me as it once did. It doesn’t do for a man my age to concern himself with such things.’
I felt Braddock’s eyes on mine as I puffed on my cheroot, though she did not push the topic further, for which I was grateful. A chik chak gecko sang somewhere nearby, and in the glow of the lanterns we watched a meandering trail of flying insects pass before us.
‘Does the idea of the hunt tomorrow excite you?’ I asked at length.
Braddock then pierced me with a look of such contempt I immediately regretted the question. We sat in silence for some time after, and when the gin pahits and cheroots were finished, Braddock excused herself and bade me goodnight. I was left alone, looking into the darkness, hearing the gentle flow of the river without seeing it.
#
The following morning, at the break of dawn, the hunters breakfasted with me. We ate eggs followed by plantains and papaya, and we drank fresh coffee. I did not venture much conversation for I could see the trepidation in the faces of my guests, and it was clear from their behaviours that they were best left to their own thoughts.
It was unusual for me to accompany the guests on a hunt – in fact this would be my first time to do so – and the sight of the guns was unnerving. I did not bring my own, of course, for I was coming merely as a spectator, and I believed there was no reason to fear what I could not see. We set out shortly after breakfast, taking the path into the jungle that led from my back door.
Braddock led the way, with the younger woman behind her and the man in third. I took up the rear, being conscious to keep quiet in case it interfered with their objective in any way. For a long while not a word passed between us.
The day was warm, and I confess that I was soon sweating through my shirt. Sunlight beat down upon us through the emerald filter of the canopy, and warmth seemed to rise from the earth like an intoxicating perfume. It was not an unpleasant morning, however, for that part of the jungle was well known to me, and as we walked I was reminded of the bygone days. I remembered my first visit as a young man, when I spent weeks documenting the birds and beetles and snakes with the help of a group of local boys; then later after the colonists left, going for daily walks, Langley and I, alone.
I noticed that now and then there passed between the hunters certain looks that spoke of a shared experience – a sixth sense, perhaps – that I was not privy to, and it soon became obvious that something was afoot. Then, all of a sudden, Braddock took off at a run between the trees. The others simultaneously shot off in opposite directions, and I was at a loss as to whom, if any, I should follow.
Before I could decide, I heard the ominous report of a gun, and I took off after Braddock. I ran as best I could through the undergrowth, and some minutes later I came upon the writer crouched behind a fallen log. Though she did not turn to see my approach, she must have heard my heavy lumbering through the jungle for she raised a hand to command silence. I fell in beside her, catching my breath as I dropped to my knees.
‘There,’ Braddock breathed. ‘Twenty metres ahead, in the shadow of the tree.’
For several seconds I saw nothing, but then a slight movement caught my attention. There it was, the Anxiety, crouching next to the bole of a tree. It was a small thing, perhaps four feet tall, a wiry creature with long limbs. It was entirely black, lacking any discernible features, and its movements were jerky and undefined, like the characters in a cine film. Though it had no distinguishable face, I had the distinct impression that it was watching us.
It’s difficult to describe the sensation that overcame me in that moment, for it was entirely unfamiliar to me. All at once my whole being seemed to shrink, as though something had reached inside my chest and grabbed my very soul, and with bony fingers was attempting to wrestle it out of existence. My breaths became shallow, my head light, and I could focus on nothing around me. The world no longer belonged to the realms I knew – those of the past and the present – but to a stark and terrifying future that appeared as a mountainous black hole before me.
I was only vaguely aware of Braddock’s movements beside me, for I was unable to tear my gaze away from the horrid creature. I felt the jungle around me dissolve into nothing – all achievements, memories, and pleasures shrank into insignificance, and at the end there was nothing left but an all-encompassing emptiness.
It is with shame that I admit that in that moment, had Braddock turned the gun on me I would have considered it a welcome relief.
Suddenly the creature advanced towards us, crawling through the undergrowth on all fours, and only then did I have the sense to glance at Braddock. Her face was sickly pale and glazed with sweat, her whole body shook, and I thought for a moment that she might faint. It came as a surprise, then, when she took aim at the oncoming terror and pulled the trigger.
I shuddered at the sound, cowering at Braddock’s side. The creature fell backwards and lay still for a moment, but then to my dismay it returned to its feet and looked in our direction once more. Terror consumed me. I do not recall what happened next, for everything turned to darkness.
Presently I found that I was lying on a bed of ferns and Braddock’s hand was on my shoulder. It was as though I were waking from a dream. Braddock looked shaken but relieved, wearing the expression of one who has just completed a long-dreaded assignment. Dragging myself into a sitting position, I glanced instinctively to the spot where the creature had been.
‘It’s gone,’ Braddock said.
Indeed there appeared no trace of it. The jungle was still, silent but for the throaty squawk of a distant hornbill.
‘That’s not to say it won’t come back,’ Braddock said, eyeing me with concern. ‘Are you quite all right?’
‘That thing,’ I spluttered. My tongue seemed like a foreign body in my mouth. ‘What- what was it?’
Braddock shouldered her gun and extended a pudgy hand.
‘It is a soul shadow,’ she replied, pulling me to my feet. ‘The Anxieties prey upon a person’s spirit. I see that this one has taken a nibble of yours, too. A nibble can actually do one good; the trick is to not let it engulf you.’
I watched her now not with curiosity but with admiration.
‘And it didn’t engulf you?’ I asked.
‘It has come close a number of times. But I have not let it defeat me.’ She gestured to the empty jungle. ‘As you can see. Come, I’m quite ready for a cheroot and perhaps a gin and bitters.’
#
My two other guests had evidently enjoyed similar successes. They arrived back at the bungalow shortly after we did, and both were in high spirits. The girl, who had barely spoken a word from the moment I met her, seemed like a different person entirely, while the young man, who I had previously thought sullen and dull, was suddenly animated and cheerful.
After taking lunch I induced my guests to bathe in the river, and I fancy that they were quite taken with the novelty. The afternoon heat was just short of oppressive, and the cool water with its mossy aroma was just the ticket. A troop of macaques paid us a brief visit as we sat drying on the rocks, and the smiles on the faces of my guests were quite contagious.
We spent the evening trading tales. It was pleasant for me to hear stories of London society, for I had not been home in some years, and I believe my guests were entertained by my account of how I came to live in that secluded place. It transpired that the young man was a student of natural history, and I was flattered to discover that he counted my published works among his great inspirations.
‘But do you not miss civilization?’ he asked me, puffing contentedly on his cheroot.
‘Occasionally,’ I admitted, ‘though I am quite at home here.’
‘And you don’t mind what people say?’ asked the young woman.
‘And what do they say, dear?’ I replied.
The young woman glanced at Braddock, and then all three guests averted their eyes in unison.
‘Please be frank,’ I said. ‘I am not troubled easily by the opinions of others; you will find that I have rather a thick skin.’
‘Many have suggested that you are hiding,’ the young woman said, a trifle bashfully.
‘Hiding?’ I replied. ‘Nonsense. What would I be hiding from?’
There followed a silence that was quite uncomfortable. I came to the conclusion, of course, that certain details about my private life had become common knowledge in London society. I had no need to ask what those details were.
Though Braddock made attempts to salvage the conversation, it was plain that the jovial air of earlier could not be recovered. Presently the two younger guests retired to their beds and mosquito nets, and Braddock and I sat quietly on the veranda with our drinks.
Night had by now veiled the jungle, and we were serenaded by the usual evening orchestra of birds, insects, and mammals, underscored by the rhythmic flow of the river.
As I looked through the darkness I wondered if I had indeed been living in ignorance all those years. Maybe they were right; perhaps I was hiding. Perhaps this place was simply my refuge from the stark judgement of others, from the future, and just as the jungle represented the heart of darkness for my guests, perhaps London represented the very same for me.
Presently I saw a movement in the trees ahead, and I was disconcerted to find that my blood ran cold and beads of sweat gathered on my brow.
‘You see one, don’t you?’ Braddock said, seeing me frozen in my seat.
I did not blink or dare to tear my gaze from the shadowy movements close to the river. ‘Will I ever be at peace again?’ I breathed.
Braddock disappeared inside and returned moments later with her gun.
‘Peace is an illusion and a folly,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘Don’t dwell on what people say. Remember, the flamingo doesn’t lose sleep over the pigeon’s critique of pink.’
She winked, and had I not been so flustered I might have been amused by our reversal of roles.
‘Breathe,’ she said. ‘No one should be ashamed of pink feathers.’
I nodded and shouldered the gun as I set off towards the river. As I moved through the trees, deeper and deeper into the jungle, it occurred to me that I was journeying simultaneously into my past and into my unknown. The creatures had been there all along, living alongside me, just out of sight.
It was time to look them in the eye and show them my true colour.
If you join r/windowlessroom on Reddit, you will learn about the Gift of the Meaningless Library, and your obsession will begin.
First, you will see a series of threads on the forum. Most of these are discussions, posted by general users. For example, see the below screenshot:
r/windowlessroom. Posted by u/DesperateHope two years ago.
Subject: What is the Meaningless Library?
Hello fellow introverts!
Great to be part of the forum. Everyone’s here for the same reason right? We’ve all heard the rumours. My friend told me about this a while back, though she never got far.
So, any guesses on what/where the Library is, and what the ‘Gift of the Vague’ gives us?
TheBackground: Thanks for posting! Members of the community, please note that our moderators check all posts for unsavory behavior. This is a place where you can be yourselves freely.
// I am a bot and this action was performed automatically //
QuietWatcher: Nice to see you here OP. I’ve just joined too. I heard the Library’s Gift gives you some Marvel superpowers—superspeed, strength, invisibility. Excited to see if I’m accepted 😉
UncorroboratedIdentity: Lol, check out OP, pretending he’s got a friend. Let’s face it, on this forum we’re all loners. That’s why we’re here after all. I reckon the Library’s a metaphor or something. You know, for some Cthulhu shit.
ShorelessSea: As long as it can help me escape.
u/DesperateHope: Damn downer much lol. Escape isn’t a fun superpower.
ShorelessSea: Is this a joke to you all?? You shouldn’t be here.
So many speculations. So many try and define the Library, and the Gift. They claim it must be from an angel, or the magic of some primordial god, or our own delusions about modern life, reflected back at us.
I don’t recommend you participate in such discussions. Except for ShorelessSea, all of the above users were banned by the moderators soon after posting.
Not that you want to, do you? You want to lurk. To watch.
Good.
However, there are threads you will need to respond to, where the Moderators have posted questions. It is these that they really pay attention to. And you need to impress them, to access the Library.
Do not worry, I am here to help you. Below are the questions, and example answers taken from older forums. My annotations are in brackets. Note those that were successful, and those that weren’t.
r/windowlessroom. Posted by TheBackground two years ago.
Subject: Question 1
Who are you?
TheBackground: Members of the community—please note that our moderators will be checking any posts for unsavory behavior. This is a place where you can be yourselves freely.
// I am a bot and this action was performed automatically //
ScreenGhost: I’m a father to three beautiful children. I’m a loving husband. I’m also an ex-con, which I guess is why I’m here in the first place. I’ve heard what the Library can offer someone like me. A fresh start. For me, and my family.
ShorelessSea: I don’t know who I am. I don’t care, either.
(ScreenGhost was unsuccessful. I’m sure you expected that though. The Gift would never suit someone with such heavy identity.)
r/windowlessroom. Posted by TheBackground two years ago.
Subject: Question 2
If you could be anything, what would you be?
(successful answers:)
HushedForest: A one way mirror.
SilentFortress: A ream of stardust.
ShorelessSea: A winter’s night.
(unsuccessful answers:)
ScreenGhost: A dragon.
xXNINJALORDXx: A hero.
ArmyGirl: A good person.
r/windowlessroom. Posted by TheBackground two years ago.
Subject: Question 3
If you were invisible, what would you do?
FunkRenegade: I know I’m supposed to answer honestly, so here goes. I’d do tons of stuff. Imagine walking into a bank, and taking all the money you wanted. Hell, you’d not even need money anymore. Imagine going out, and seeing a hot girl, and knowing you could follow her home and watch her undress. I’d do it all. There’s so many of my friends I’ve wanted to see naked, and watch, and touch.
JealousName: I’m not sure I’d do anything different. I’d just go about my day, doing what I always did.
(Both answers were unsuccessful. FunkRenegade’s ideas are clearly sordid and mean. JealousName’s content was not the problem. The problem was that she was lying.)
r/windowlessroom. Posted by TheBackground two years ago.
Subject: Question 4
Tell us about a time when you felt limited.
ShorelessSea: My family sees me as the breadwinner. I work twelve hour shifts at a warehouse, four nights a week. I barely see Emily, my wife, but she leaves me messages on our dining room table, like we’re some 19th century couple. “You’re beautiful.” “You’re my saviour.” “You what keeps our family alive.”
What bothers me isn’t the work. I like packing Amazon boxes twelve hours a day. It’s easy and repetitive, and I can lose myself in the labyrinth of shelves, hide from everyone at least for a moment.
No, it’s Emily’s labels of me. Her expectations. They push me into something I’m not. My identity is so much less. Even when she’s not there, I feel like she’s watching me, peeking behind cardboard boxes, expecting me to be great.
That’s why I’m here, I think. I want to be free. Carrying so many meanings is exhausting.
(ShorelessSea’s answer was successful.)
You understand what to do. It’s very simple. Answer the questions. I’ve offered you all the help I can—most applicants never get this level of insight.
Take time to consider your answers. The moderators want your truths, not your surface responses. If you’re lying, they will know. They’ve all been where you are, after all.
I’d say good luck, but luck doesn’t matter here. Not to us.
Step Two: Installation
We all have a need, don’t we, to see, but not be seen. Consider how all of us pour our lives into TV and films and novels, into these stories we can’t ever change. We love to exist apart from the drama of these other worlds, love to laugh and cry and want these people that can never see us. We find the Fourth Wall a comfort, and a power. We long for it.
It hurts when the show expires, the book terminates, and we are forced back into ourselves.
Congratulations. I’ve just heard. You passed.
The Moderators have now given you access into the r/meaninglesslibrary subreddit. Welcome.
They have also told me that you work for the Ministry of Defence. I wondered how you were paying my fees.
Be calm. This doesn’t hurt your chances. We know that’s not why you’re really here, despite what your bosses think about the Gift of the Vague, and the ‘tactical advantage’ you told them it could give your agency. You’re not an Espionage Support Officer. I’m not saying you’re more than that title, but less.
Let that thought sit with you. Liberating, isn’t it?
Onto your next stage. You can now access the old locked threads. If you wish, you may talk with other successful applicants.
You are a step closer, but there are now more questions to answer. They are old posts now. Responding to them may feel like you are speaking to a grave.
I will share more examples.
You may have doubts. You may wonder whether the rumours are true, or if the Gift of the Vague is a fairy tale, a creepypasta, an internet lie.
Have faith.
r/meaninglesslibrary. Posted by TheBackground ten years ago.
Subject: Question 1
What is the fundamental human need?
CarefulReflection: To devour things.
TVLover: To be loved.
RiverBorder: To be understood.
NamelessNeed: To watch.
SilentLake: To be.
ShorelessSea: To define and categorise. And I hate it.
(I hope by now you can guess that the first three were unsuccessful)
r/meaninglesslibrary. Posted by TheBackground ten years ago.
Subject: Question 2
Tell us about a time you were truly happy.
ShorelessSea: The other day, I stopped at a service station.
I was driving back from a job interview for a Marine Ecological Biologist. The job was in Scotland, seven hours drive from our house, but I went because Emily wanted me to stop doing nights at the warehouse, and start using my degree.
I didn’t get the job. The recruiter rang me on the way home. He sounded so sad, like he knew what he was giving me—the label, the definition, of a reject.
So, I stopped at this services. It was pretty small, just a pair on beige concrete buildings, huddled off the M6. It had a café, The Coffee Shack—if it was a chain, I’d never heard of it. It had maybe twenty foldaway plastic tables, none of which were occupied for more than half an hour. The servers were all tired middle-aged women, who made the coffee by pressing a button. Somehow the whole place smelt of lemon disinfectant.
I turned off my phone, and found a spot in one corner, where the striplights weren’t working. No-one could see me.
It was perfect.
It was like I didn’t exist. I could watch everyone pass by, and they didn’t see me. Everything about me fell away, until I was just being. I found I didn’t care about the job at all.
I was finally free.
It didn’t last, of course. When I got back home, I told Emily about the rejection. She said it was okay, that we’d manage, but I could feel her disappointment, like I was her child rather than her partner. All the labels and definitions that everyone had even given me came back. I was so heavy with them, I couldn’t breathe.
(ShorelessSea’s answer was successful)
r/meaninglesslibrary. Posted by TheBackground ten years ago.
Subject: Question 3
Do you want to die?
SilentLake: It’s hard writing this, but maybe. I think so. I’m ready for this to end.
ShorelessSea: No. There’s so much to live for.
(SilentLake was booked into ten weeks of private counselling sessions the next day. His account was then banned.)
r/meaninglesslibrary. Posted by TheBackground ten years ago.
Subject: Question 4
If you were unknowable, what would you be?
(I won’t give you help for this one. Just answer honestly. Take your time. Think for days, weeks, months if you need to. There is no rush. It took me two years and the promise of a divorce before I could find the right words.
While you consider, you may notice things changing in your house. Your front door ajar when you were sure you checked all four bolts. Your work laptop unlocked, with its email open. Your second bedroom freshly dusted, the worn sofabed open and ruffled, like it was slept in.
Waking up in the darkness, sure you felt a breath on your face.
All part of the process. The moderators are thorough in their checks.)
Step Three: Dislocation
Goodness. You have passed again.
It is incredibly rare, for someone to move through the stages so quickly. If I didn’t trust the Moderators, I’d wonder if you were cheating.
But I do trust the Moderators. Absolutely.
You have been granted access to the final subreddit. R/CimmerianLighthouse.
Yes, the Library was a metaphor. The Moderators needed some way for our minds to approximate what they offer. The Cimmerian Lighthouse is another one. It is hosted on Reddit, but its workings are far deeper. The server clocks reset constantly, and all users are nameless save TheBackground. It is perfect, for people like us. We are one of only a handful, to get to this place.
R/CimmerianLighthouse contains a single post:
r/CimmerianLighthouse. Posted by TheBackground two hundred years ago.
Subject: Meeting Link.
On that thread will be a link to a video stream.
Yes, it is time. You will now meet the Moderators.
You have already encountered them of course. But this time, they will let you see them.
Understand the honour of this. Each of the Moderators has received the Gift of the Vague. It is their antithesis, to let you do what you’re about to.
But you need to look, to understand. There are no questions for this third step. Only this final challenge.
You have seen a Moderator, haven’t you?
I wonder what your brain attempted, when you opened that video stream. Did you see a stroke of shadow, and believe it first fur, then a snout, then just a trick of the shadow? Did you see a stitch of lines that looked like a silver necklace, then a curled snake, then a string of eyes? Did you feel like you were reading a book, reading for hours, yet not understanding a word?
One thing I know you saw: a livestream of inanimate things, then the sense of a presence, sliding in and out of your consciousness like a mark on the carpet that seems a face in one light, then only a bloodstain the next.
Yes, the Gift of the Vague is real, and the Gifted walk among us.
Understand this. You have already seen the Gifted a thousand times. You just haven’t realized it. They are the man in the unoccupied café table, the watcher behind the one-way glass, the stranger sleeping in the second room. They are so much less than a person, and so much purer.
Call it what you will. Magic. A Miracle. A Haunting. You will have questions: where did this power come from? Why?
I don’t know. I only know that they have always been here, with us. Perhaps a god gave them this gift. Perhaps they evolved this way, a survival strategy to cope with the relentless meanings that are forced on us all.
The answers don’t matter. What matters is that you too can be given this Gift. All your wishes can be granted.
Of course, right now you are terrified. It is such human nature, to define, to categorise. Understand your fear is your base impulses, enshrined in your reptile brain, trying to assert themselves. Just as you resisted the urge to stab your boss in the eye with your blue Staedtler ballpoint pen, you can resist this.
I will give you some time. If you still decide that you want this Gift, wire my final payment across, and I will guide you through the final step.
Step Four: Disintegration
I thought I might be hearing from you. You are calm now. You want this.
Then follow my instructions to purify yourself.
You will first need to cut out any Significant Others in your life. Spouses. Parents. Children. Bosses, if you can. Anyone whose gaze defines you.
You then must free yourself of all your material wealth. Property. Money. Things. We don’t care how—we don’t need them. This isn’t a cult.
Once you have done this, once you are wandering and alone, floating in the drifts of all the other lives in your city, as a final act of devotion you will need to sever a digit. A toe, perhaps, or a finger. Which one is up to you.
All of this shows your commitment. Once you have done this, once you have been washed as clean as you can of all your meanings, access the video link again. Ask the Moderators to share their Gift.
Congratulations.
I admit, I am envious.
After all, I am one of the Failures.
I came so close. I saw the Moderators, not once, but twice.
Yet when I tried to leave Emily, I lasted only days. Without her definitions, the endless pressure of her belief, I fell apart. I felt like I was in a vacuum. When I saw the Gifted again, I could not ask. Instead, I committed sacrilege. I saw its endless interpretations and invested them with meaning. In its patterns, I saw Emily’s eyes, shining with hope.
To be Gifted is to exist outside of understanding. To be a watcher, a pure expression of being. I wasn’t desolate enough, defiant enough, daring enough, to choose to never be known.
Emily left me anyway. Now I live alone, in a basement apartment, a windowless room. The ghost of her hope haunts me. I never tried to reach out to her. I thought there was still a chance, that I too could be granted the Gift.
I should contact her. I’ve got money now; enough, perhaps, to buy us a new life. Because seeing you go through this all so effortlessly makes me understand that, no matter how much I want solitude, I need other people. I will never be Gifted. I love my limits too much.
I’m sorry, for making you cut off your index finger. You didn’t need to do that part. I was jealous, you see, that you could have what I couldn’t. I wanted you to suffer.
I’m writing this final memo on lined paper rather than over email. It’s on my desk. I hope you come to see it. Perhaps you want to have your revenge: haunt my house, break my things, smile and cry at the image of me drinking alone, in my single bed. That’s fine, it’s all fine. My mind won’t let me see you. I won’t know you’re there.
But when you arrive, I need you to see me. Understand me. Please.
Do you feel stuck and unsure as a writer? Are you not getting acceptances, not making sales, not writing to your full potential? How can you break through the self-doubt and noise to start carving out your unique space in the world of fiction?
Ross Jeffery is joining us for a Live ZOOM chat this Thursday to talk about his experience.
Ross is the Executive Director of STORGY literary magazine and its Head of Books. He is also the Bram Stoker Award Nominated Author of Tome, Juniper, and Tethered.
It’s hard to believe that Ross had given up on writing for seven years. Yes, 7 years! Now he is exploding in the dark fiction scene, and he is going to join us on Zoom to talk about how to break through as a writer.
What You’ll Learn – How to Break Through as a Writer with Ross Jeffery
Why Ross gave up writing for so long and what made him start again
What drives his dark, disturbing stories
The breakthrough moment in his writing career that got his momentum going
How writers can approach other authors for blurbs
How writers can position themselves to be nominated for awards
Ross’ advice for all those writers who have given up, are thinking of given up, or haven’t even started
