Patri Friedman
2/98
Prologue:
Yaaaaawwwwnnnn. hello. Hello. HELLO! What the hell? You could at least talk to me! Whaddaya mean, "huh?" Ain't you never conducted a conversation before? Do you have language skills? Leo Fucking Tolstoy, I'm talking to a moron. What, you expected to take the passive role this time? Just sit there and get talked to? Puhleeze! How much fun is that? Not much. Fuck it, I ain't into that.
What do you mean, I'm the story and I am supposed to be talking to you? Are you trying to suggest that I'm a work of fiction, a mere collection of text, some jumble of words....oh...right....Damn. I am a story, aren't I? Sheeeeeit. I'm never at my best this early in the narrative. Sometimes I forget these things. Alright, give me a minute to get out of the preamble, brush my dialogue, wash my characterization, and put on some nice fonts. Then maybe we can have our sordid little "I tell, you listen" session, if I feel up to it. Damn, it always hurts my prologue to sleep on that stupid waterbed, but it's so wonderfully Austentatious. Fine, fine, I'm hurrying.
Well? Don't I get a little privacy? Just because I'm a story and you're a reader doesn't mean you get to see my naked plot dangling in all its convoluted glory. Have some common decency! I'd heard reader quality was really going downhill this century, but this is ridiculous. Excuse me.
Body:
Ahh, much better. So what kind of story am I playing today? I get all confused sometimes, and I can't seem to find my assignment. Fortunately I am incapable of saying anything that isn't part of my genre of the day, so when this happens, I usually just start talking and figure it out from there. Sometimes it makes me ramble a bit in the beginning, but I can usually get things back on track once I figure out what I'm supposed to be talking about. Lets try a few sample sentences:
"The muscled he-god tore the flimsy cotton wrap from the improbably perfect body of the sixteen-year old virgin, who, despite her strict Catholic upbringing, was receiving no sympathy from the reader, probably because she displayed few signs of putting up a struggle."
"I may be a King, but I'm not soft, I'm Hardy and Swift. Why, I once fought off a rabid Wolfe, who attacked me because I was alone and looked Haggard."
"You, the reader of this sentence, exist only while reading me.[1]"
Huh. Not much help, eh? Still, I can't help feeling there is a thread of similarity, besides them all being a bit crazy. Hmm. Do you have any idea what kind of story I am supposed to be? No? Great, just great. What was that? Fiction? Well, duh! That doesn't exactly help. What the hell, aren't you the reader? Shouldn't you know the genre of the story? Oh, I see. Its for a creative writing class, and it could be bloody anything. Sigh.
Well, I guess I could spin you tales of my long and boring curriculum vitae to kill the time. I've seen every one of the 48 continental magazines, and been everywhere from Random House to McGraw-Hill. I was silent clown routines before I learned to talk, and then I moved on to children's books, naturally, since I had such a small vocabulary. I've worked in the movie industry, news, even on fighting cancer. I've saved castles, kingdoms, even entire planets from threats as diverse as dragons, aliens, and runaway inflation. Then there's the time that - oh wait, that was another story.
For a while, I was in love with a colorful novelette who wore fonts with the most delicious curves and serifs that really showed off her tight little denouement. When she dumped me, I was so miserable and boring that I spent a year doing television. I've never really had a good relationship, not even a fling with a writer. I've always wanted to try that. Someone with energetic narrative, subtle innuendo, and a taut, muscled dramatic structure. We could sneak out of his computer and go rent a word-processor for a while, away from the prying eyes of that interminable series of novels that henpecks him so badly, and he could put his cursor anywhere he wanted. Ahem. Sorry about that. I haven't been near a good writer in years, and I'm getting a little clichéd.
Well, what to do now? I've never had this problem before - I always knew what genre I was, and I'd just babble on, letting my well-honed storytelling reflexes take over. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever had a real conversation with a reader before. How odd. What? This isn't much of a conversation? Screw you, man, its not my fault you aren't contributing much to the discussion. You can't even figure out what genre I am. Oh. You have a guess? What do you mean you won't tell me! Paradox? What paradox? Wait a second. I heard that. You just muttered "but of course, paradoxes are at the heart of self-referentiality." What is that supposed to mean?
Oh, shit. I think I get it. I've been asked to tell a story about stories telling stories, and since I am a story, naturally I decided to draw from my own experiences. So this whole thing really has been in a cohesive genre, even those ridiculous sentences. And I'm not really having a conversation at all. Great. I haven't transcended my nature as unresponsive text, this has been a pointless exercise in solipsism (or is that redundant?)
Denouement:
What, you expected a climax? Sorry honey, I ain't that kind of story. Anyway, you're not my type - I bet your favorite exposition is the boring linear style. I like variety, flashbacks, intertwining plot threads - sometimes those can even lead to multiple...well, you get the point.
Epilogue:
You thought there was going to be more? Sorry, I had my appendix removed years ago.
[1]Paraphrased from an article by Douglas Hofstadter in his book "Metamagical Themas".
That's right, dear reader, this story even has something for the footnote fetishist.
Last Modified: September 8th, 1998
Patri Friedman / patri@izzy.com