I sit staring at my laptop screen, drumming my fingers on the desk and everything else within reach as I try to regain the will to write. Somehow my motivation always seems to slip away right when I need it most. I decide to do something crazy.

    This novel stars a young woman who is, herself, writing a book. (Yes, it is very possible that I designed this woman after myself, but don’t worry about it; it’s none of your business). 



    But it’s not going anywhere. With the knowledge that I am condemning my entire species as a novelist: a writer is a rather boring thing to write about. 



   So I make changes. With a flick of my fingers my young woman gets sucked into the world she has created. Her computer swallows her whole and she…………..ERROR-















   I open my eyes. For a moment I think I must have fallen asleep, and just when my mind was racing with all the possibilities! But then I take a moment to look around. I check the time on my laptop: 11:00 a.m.. 



  _That’s not possible. _I sat down to write at 12:30. Unless I was about a million times more exhausted than I thought and slept a full thirteen hours, something is seriously wrong. I stare at my computer screen for a minute and then sit bold upright as panic courses through me.

My story is gone. All of it. I scroll frantically through my other documents and find them all empty as well. I’m about to start screaming and throwing up when there’s a knock at the door to my apartment. I have a strange sensation as I’m walking through the room, like I can’t fully see everything.

I’m aware of my surroundings but at the same time everything has this hazy sheen to it. And when I try to look at my couch there’s an odd dark hole where it’s supposed to be. But the door. I go to answer it just as the intruder knocks again.

I have another strange sensation as I open the door and stare at this person. It’s a man, and somehow I knew that it would be. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before but I can’t place him. He smiles a perfect smile and says hello but somehow I knew he would and I feel like I’m in a fever dream.

“Hi…” I say hesitantly, completely aware that I’m staring at him like a psychopath analyzing a victim. “You’re her,” he says, and even though I knew he would say that too I don’t know what he means. “I’m…who?” “The writer,” and he laughs like he’s just told a funny joke. Haha. “Or did you forget?” “No…” I say slowly, “I didn’t forget. But just so I know that you didn’t, who am I exactly?” Though undoubtedly a strange question, he doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest. “Cassandra Elliot: the writer of our book,” he explains helpfully, a pleasant smile on his too-pleasant face.

Our book? Are there more than one of him?

“What, are you a clone or something?” It comes out before I can stop myself and I’m less surprised than last time when he laughs again. “That’s up to you,” he answers mysteriously. “Well I’ll let you get back to work now. I just wanted to stop by and see if you were really here.”

And with a friendly wave my next door stalker is gone. I stand there with my hand on the doorframe for about three minutes before heading back in. The couch is still hazy. I ignore it and head back to my room, sitting on the edge of the bed to think.

And then it’s like a switch has been flipped and everything hits me at once. That was Dylan, the next door neighbor. He’s thirty-four and he has a cat and two dogs and he drives a loud Camaro and plays pool every Thursday night with a group of friends.

But he’s not my next door neighbor. He’s my protagonist’s neighbor. Cassandra’s neighbor. So that means… I run to the living room again and look at the blobs of haze scattered here and there. I’d never finished the description of Cassandra’s apartment. I hadn’t written in a couch or coffee table or tv set so they’re not here.

And so I stand there in awe and trepidation of what I’ve done. What I’ve somehow managed to accomplish. I’ve trapped myself inside my own book. But I didnt finish that book, so how do I escape? I wonder briefly if Dylan knows but then remember that he only knows what I planted in his mind.

An idea strikes me, and I return once more to my laptop. I sit down and my fingers hover over the keys. I type: “_suddenly the doorbell rings…”_and am rewarded by a chime on the air. What makes it a little spooky is the fact that I don’t actually have a doorbell.

I try again, adrenaline pumping through my body.

__

_ “Out of nowhere a mariachi band appears and begins to play a song I’ve heard but can’t remember the name of….” _

Before I can even finish typing my ears are assaulted with sound: trumpets and accordions and guitars in a rousing melody of- what song is that?? I quickly erase my last sentence and the band vanishes. Then I drop my hands to my lap and lean back in my chair.

This could either be super sick or the worst mistake of my life…