Last week, I wrote a few letters to my characters.
They’ve decided to write back. Some are not that happy (which pleases me; if they have it easy, that means we have some drama missing somewhere).
Ryan, you jerk, you had a tiger gouge my arm! Where in the world did the tiger come from? I’m glad I’m finally getting a mother figure, now maybe I’ll stop pouting about having killed someone. But I have no idea how you’re going to get me out of this fix.
Why don’t I get to be a POV character? And… you’re not seriously having hyperspace intelligences take over my mind? Oh hell, you are…
[Corvus is temporarily unconscious and unable to come to the phone right now.]
Alyse and Espe write:
We want to kill the computer.
Ryan, I am a freakin’ emotional mess. The scene where I had to cradle my dead daughter while the world around me seems not to care: why did you make that keep going and going and going? Now I’m crying in heaping sobs over gravestones and flipping out for almost any reason at all. But I did like shooting that tiger. Uhm, where did the tiger come from?
Roche and Adler write:
Whoooo-hoooo! We’re back in the book! We’re kicking butt! We’re blowing things up! We’re going rock this damn place, just try to stop us!
RYAN, YOU HAVE NOT EVEN STARTED TO CONCEIVE OF THE HELL I WILL MAKE OF THE END OF YOUR BOOK. YOU CAN’T DEFEAT ME. NO ONE CAN STOP ME. I CAN’T STOP ME BECAUSE I’M NOT SURE WHAT I’M REALLY TRYING TO DO THAT NEEDS TO BE STOPPED.
Haxan and Devoss and Nomura and Leland and the people Celeste keeps inventing and all the rest of us aboard the Jormungand write:
Thanks for finally explaining who we are and why we’re so weird. Now stabilize our damn dialogue.
The tiger writes:
I’m dead now. Don’t smoke. By the way, where did I come from?