The Library of the Unwritten (Hell's Library #1)

by A.J. Hackwith

“Confusingly squishy. That’s humans in a nutshell.”

“A lie. A dream. Good stories are both,” Claire dismissed. “Is it so bad? He’ll remember the story, turn it over carefully in the back of his mind, feel the edges of it like he would a lucky coin. A story will change him if he lets it. The shape and the spirit of it. Change how he acts, what dreams he chooses to believe in. We all need our stories; I just fed him a good one.”

Think of it: what is more boring than paradise?

Claire waved a hand. “Anything long-lived will deal with bouts of questionable sanity from time to time. Unwritten characters included.”

“‘And hope buoyed like a flag, fragile on the wind. Death was the only freedom.’”

How much easier it would be if everyone knew their role: the hero, the sidekick, the villain. Our books would be neater and our souls less frayed. But whether you have blood or ink, no one’s story is that simple.

“I know that it takes a rare heart to break and leave behind such a sharp, cutting edge.”

Realms can die. I said that before. It’s rare, because humans love nothing more than holding on to an idea, worrying it in their teeth until it’s shaped into something else. But it happens, occasionally. When a realm loses access to dreams and imagination, it starves. It’s not a gentle death. A realm will attempt to preserve itself, feed itself on any unwary dream, any stray soul that wanders into its maw.

The trouble with reading is it goes to your head. Read too many books and you get savvy. You begin to think you know which kind of story you’re in. Then some stupid git with a cosmic quill fucks you over.