I have a confession.

I’ve incubated and given birth to a fantasy world. A whole other reality passed through me. And I became addicted to that feeling of building.

Not addicted in a dangerous way that it interferes with my daily life— although, yes, I’ve skipped dinners, trivia nights, birthdays, etc. while in the throes of a compelling narrative.

Just that… to me, nothing rivaled the high of dreaming up history.

I came to this realization slowly, via reading. My young memories of ‘borrowing’ my older sister’s chapter books and losing myself for a couple of hours still brought a smile to my face. While reading, I wasn’t anxious, I wasn’t frustrated, I wasn’t impatient. I was just present. I could live there, breathe there. I could watch, stone by stone, as worlds were built around me. Watching the pieces come together gave me insight into how my world worked. Let me not feel like such an outsider.

So I wanted more.

Eventually, I stumbled into niche corners of the internet and sank into the wild expanse of web novels. Here my hunger for more content could be more than satisfied. But as I continued to read… I developed a certain feeling.

To be alive is to be burdened by feelings.

Webnovels gave me the space and scope to play that I had long craved. Yet the world tossed up by the author sometimes felt more like a greenscreen than a foundation.

Not that I hated the lack of realism in web novels. Their taste in pure hilarity antics is impeccable. Simply…

The demonstrated mechanisms of the world glided forward without momentum. None of the benefits received by the main character felt earned. The progression might be glittering and festooned with cool names, but it was empty. The bricks that held up the world were moved around as needed. Nothing had been built with purpose; it had all been thrown together to highlight our lead.

So when I had thoroughly familiarized myself with the genre, I expanded from simply reading into the domain of writing my own web novels.

What a small thing, building! It was as simple as taking known shapes and combining them together in unexpected ways. From the magic system, to the environment, to the character backstories… It was all an elaborate puzzle, in my mind. I could see the way the pieces fit into each other's smooth grooves.

In my mind, the story to follow could be described in a single word: inevitable.

It brought me so much fucking joy.

But the high didn’t last. Very quickly, the pure joy of building began to recede and left a horrified realization: I was quite out of my depth. Always easier to be a critic than a creator.

Yet the difficulty brought out an aspect in me I hadn’t anticipated: a sense of responsibility. I needed to give the respect and time the characters deserved. I had built their world, so I had an obligation to keep it running without any hitches.

For as long as I can remember, the only way I outshone my talented older sister was in stubbornness. Maybe because of that, I doubled down. I felt a resolve crystalize in me; until the day I died, I would give everything I had to those characters and plotlines.

Heh.

I labored in near anonymity as I began, building a machine in my mind to help me shape, lathe, and smooth the pieces I would need in my story. Cog by cog, brass flywheel by lever, I made a clockwork masterpiece capable of birthing worlds.

My therapist hated when I talked about the machine. Referred to it as a ‘problematic self-ideology’. But when my first major arc ended with a masterful and intricate finale and my story exploded in popularity… ahhh, there really aren’t words to describe the feeling of contentment.

There were a few minor eyebrows raised at how my sense of humor manifested, but I just couldn’t help myself.

The fullness and satisfaction returned; I hadn’t disappointed either my readers or the world I had built. Just like worlds had helped me, they now helped others. Just like I had known from the beginning, this was a world worth nurturing.

The machine hummed in warm satisfaction as it powered down. I felt luxurious with the triumph. I called up my sister (who apparently spat out her protein shake to see me reaching out) and arranged a dinner for the two of us. I treated her at a steakhouse, even as she (an orthopedic surgeon) laughed and laughed, endlessly tickled by the thought of me being a writer.

“Well, as long as you’re happy.” She pinched my cheek as we left, tipsy on wine. “Proud of you, Tallum. Also, don’t be such a stranger. Now that mom and dad are gone, you are all we have. Also, you need a haircut.”

I rolled my eyes.

I don’t think I even responded verbally. I just rolled my eyes.

A week later, my sister died of an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection.

I felt…

Hollow.

Made worse by the funeral. By one particular question that kept coming up in that stupid wooden building: “Were you close?”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

I was twenty-six, dressed in a suit and standing next to a vase of lilies. I almost put my fist through the bottom part of my great-uncle’s jaw.

At the end of the day, I found myself sitting in a daze in front of my computer screen. Finally, I stirred. After all, I had a responsibility. I turned back to other worlds, intent on building.

A lot of my little jokes and humor quirks in the story died, that day.

A secondary byproduct of the machine was discovered; while in its throes, when the chaos of life became as clinical and mechanical as a carnival plinko-board. Balls dropped, hit pegs, and bounced in geometrically sound arcs. Predictable developments rendered my raging anxiety and hurt inert. So I began to keep the clockwork machine running all the time. Writing became more than just a hobby, it became a survival mechanism.

I set my eyes on a higher prize. A longer, more masterful, more real second arc. I scrapped my machine, rebuilt it from the ground up, and prepared for my near-inevitable road to a webnovel literary classic. A way to make sure I would make my characters proud. A way to make everyone proud.

Something went wrong almost immediately.

Because now most readers couldn’t just binge through all the seeding scenes to reach the point where everything came together, the comments on my story soured. As it turned out… my realistically long training arcs, including breaks to allow the muscles to heal and injuries, did not capture the hearts of my readers.

[seriously, another fucking injury?!?]

[Dropping brick-dumb MC]

[I actually hav a cousin who is physical therapist. This weight lifting is both boring and shit]

[.5 stars wish i could give less]

Not every comment was negative. I had a very solid fan base that appreciated the grounded interactions of the characters, how much showing and not telling went into the world-building, and the intuitive magic system. They could see the seeds being planted, and trusted I would bring everything around in another dramatic finale. And I knew that those voices were the ones I should listen to. These readers were loyal, a quality I prize above all others. They continued to read my story and defend me in the comments. However…

[Next-level shit-tier story]

Each new notification would be seared into my eyes. Every bit of negativity and foolishness hacked at the sanctuary I had built. The machine in me churned to prove my foundation was well made, souring the air in my apartment with the pollution of stress.

I couldn’t stop obsessing. Even when I should be writing my careful and well-grounded chapters for those readers who appreciated me, I ended up arguing anonymously on posts regarding my story. I wanted to reach out through the internet and strangle these people!

How can they not appreciate how much effort I’ve poured into this other world!? Didn’t they understand that their theories were groundless and as long as they possessed even a modicum of patience, all would become clear?

Didn’t they understand they were reading wrong? That this world kept out-

Ahem.

In the end, I grew agitated even with the machine active all the time. As I lay in bed at night, I watched paranoia seeping in from the ceiling and dripping down my walls until the room was painted with cloying darkness. I felt panic while writing and anxiety while not writing. I let dirty dishes pile up in my sink. I ignored my calls of condolences from friends and distant family.

When I reread my daily writing, I found the scenes boring and lifeless. Suddenly I felt disdain for the blocks with which I had built this world. No wonder the readers were becoming so misled. I couldn’t even figure out how to advance the plot.

I started cranking the machine harder. I wanted to fix myself by squeezing my behavior into proper shape.

Hah~ don’t judge me.

Chapter posts became more infrequent. My diet had never been the best and I had fallen off on my daily jogs. I sat in a dark room with only the illumination of my computer screen. On the floor next to me was a stack of black plastic frozen dinner containers, stacked more easily once their insides had been scooped out.

My bloodshot eyes were not a sign of zeal. Stubbornly sitting in front of the screen and grinding my teeth was not healthy. Ill will and stubbornness can only sustain you for so long.

That was how I died.

My face hit the keyboard, my cheek too flabby to properly type out the word ‘fuck’ that dominated my thoughts.

A brain aneurysm. Can you see me now, collapsed forward on the keyboard, drool coming out of my mouth?

I hate it when my therapist is right about lifestyle choices… My eyelashes fluttered. Ah, at the very least, I won’t need to write the next chapter…

That thought cut through the pain and panic. What the hell: when did the writing stop being fun?

As my brain turned foggy, I wondered if the negative comments were responsible. It seemed plausible and a target kept me focused. I considered cursing those negative commenters. Perhaps if my curse was strong enough, I could linger on Earth and haunt them.

Not to brag, but I, as a poltergeist, could really fuck up someone’s white-picket-fence life.

All of that ill will curled inside me; I prepared to unleash my curse. But with my death imminent, the machine ceased its toil. Without the screening of its hum, I stared in the face of those Feelings I had tried to avoid for so long. My sister had died.

She had been proud of me and I rolled my eyes. A week later, she was gone.

I think I cried, but it was hard to tell with the tilde key poking my eye.

The ill will dissipated. I had to acknowledge another truth: Feelings don’t vanish just because you distract yourself from them. And submerged in those feelings like arctic ocean water, it became clear the cause of my death wasn’t the negative comments, wasn’t the pressure of writing, wasn’t the inconsistent diet.

It had been the quiet grief, tainting every aspect of my life as I left it unaddressed. It had been regret. Because she had been there all my life, she had given me the books that started me on this path, and I had never said thank you.

Because I didn’t have the courage to face how I felt.

Then I died.

I built in the wrong place, didn’t I? To avoid the real feelings, to keep myself safe. Fantasy worlds are worth time and energy. But they cannot replace the world you live in.

If I get a next life… I hope to live… No, I swear my building will happen in my own world, even if it's hard…

Mimi… ah fuck, can I get some privacy for this?!

Weirdly, I felt like some being watched me. A gaze peered out of the encroaching darkness that waited beyond life. Or perhaps all of that darkness was just the pupil of a massive eye. One so large I couldn’t see its limits.

Ah, but I’m dying, right? I’m probably just grasping at meaning, hoping I’m being watched. Typical human narcissism. Let’s just get on with it.

Even though it’s hard. Even though being vulnerable sucks. I won’t ever let my feelings go unheard, simply because I left them unsaid. I’ll carve who I am and how I feel into my entire existence.

Mimi. I miss you. I love you.

My eyes closed. Okay, I’m finished. Take me oblivion.

Welcome, Traveler. You have Awakened. Determining destination…

“Wait, seriously?!?”