A Fictional Character
by Fred Aiken
They—the always mysterious, nebulous and undefined they—came in and made William fictional. Just like that! A wave of the hand, a snap of the finger. One second William Bartley lived, breathed, and had agency in the world, and then the next second he was a piece of intellectual property.
Don’t ask how they did it. The specifics hardly matter, I would think. The fact that they could do it, that going from real to unreal is now a possibility, should really freak you the fuck out. It certainly freaks me out.
I mean, who is to say that it won’t happen to me, or you! You never know. William certainly didn’t. He was just minding his business, spreading grape jelly on a slice of white bread to make a pb&j and now he’s some fictional character in a new HBO show, or something. He didn’t ask for that!
I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m freaking out for no good reason. Who wouldn’t want to be a fictional character? Be some star in a movie or book? But I tell ya, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be. To be or not to be…and all that silly jazz. Always at the authors’ beck and call. Those needy perverts putting your life out there for everyone to see. Nothing’s private when you’re someone’s character, not even your own damn thoughts. Sure, there might be a few perks being fictional. Not being burdened with worrying about existential conundrums or dread. Not worrying about your purpose. Not having to worry about what you’re going to wear and where you’re going to get your next meal or even what to think because it’s all written out and scripted for everyone to see! There’s also the benefit of never dying once you become a character. But those benefits hardly make up for the fact that once you’re a character, your life is no longer yours. Better to toil in a brief moment of obscurity than to become the slave of infinite versions of yourself being broadcast for any ole Tom or Dick to peak about and watch as you do whatever it is their imagination wants you to do.
No, no, no, I’d much rather be some anonymous, real person rather than be turned into a fictional it. An after-thought. An inconsequential piece of literary meat in the flotsam of story-telling devices. I’m sure William Bartley would say the same, but they wrote him as a blind, deaf, and dumb character, so it’s not like he could tell you now.
Fred Aiken Writing 