> MDW: This entry is a work of fiction. Mostly. Probably a lot of it. I'm not telling.

To whom it might concern,

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The last months were not easy.

I swore to myself that I would visit Disney if I completed a milestone. Now that I did, here I am. The park was... emptier than I thought. Ride wait times were quick, fifteen to twenty minutes, in my experience. I cannot offer any commentary on the Mouse House's struggles against... a lot of people? I would really not step into that minefield. But something is not okay with this place.

Anyway, I wouldn't write this to ramble about the issues of a megacorp. They are grown up enough to deal with their own issues.

I wish they would deal with mine. But no. I have only myself to blame, and I have only myself to dig me up from the hole I jumped in. A metaphorical one. I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge my wife's stellar support. Or my editor's patience.

I made my way to a cafe table, ignoring the actresses dressed as Princesses waving at the few parkgoers. Flipping open my laptop, I started to write this missive.

Where was I? Oh. An update to my readers on my months-long silence. A lot was going on. Some of them must still remain under wraps, but others I can disclose.

I'm doing some long-winded psychological and psychiatric tests. I'm probably neurodivergent. Autistic. Back in my day, it was a curse word. Mothers would take my playmates away from me. Society has advanced since then. The diagnosis is pretty much a given. Though nothing has changed in me, I guess a piece of paper stating that I am such and such changes the outlook I and the world have on my life. on my being.

Even after I recovered from my episode of depression during the COVID lockdown, I still need to deal with some episodes of anxiety and deep bedlam. I learned my lesson, though. Every time I feel my mind slip, I disengage and try to entertain myself, distract myself, and put some distance between me and the source of my distress. I'd rather not go back to taking Serotonin reuptake blockers if I can help.

It's been on and off the last past few months. But now I'm at Disney, baby! I finished my milestone. And...

I hear some screams as I type this. The hairs at the back of my neck are up. The atmospheric pressure shifted. Scattered leaves fly in the air. People are running away. What is this? Some sort of disaster?

Perhaps I should run away. But I need to finish this letter. There's a lot I have to speak about.

For someone working on a book whose underlying message was, "It's okay to fail so long one does not give up", I clearly failed to heed my own advice. Or perhaps implementing it in real life is harder than I thought. When the stakes aren't personal when you are not shadowboxing yourself, it's easy to make the protagonist do a backflip, snap the bad guy's neck, and save the day.

Fantasy is easy. A wordsmith can bend and twist reality and make anything possible. That's why we like it so much.

I didn't fail, by any measure. I reached my milestone within the deadline. Success.

The fight was not easy. I shadowboxed myself and took in as well as I gave. But now, I rewarded myself with a trip to Florida.

Though the weather outside is not summery by any means.

My short stint as an amateur writer told me that any creative person needs to expose their inner feelings to do their art. Perhaps that's why so many artists' tales have troubled endings. I do not dare to make that a statement. Just a conjecture. I definitely became more attuned and vulnerable to outside influences.

Like those pesky pedantic reviews that are 80% about the reviewer, 15% about their tastes, and 5% generic misunderstanding. Perhaps I should banhammer all of them. But it would be a waste of time. I said it once and will say it again. If a particular piece of speech bothers you, press control plus F4 on your keyboard. It will be gone from your sight. Or go read XKCD #386 and ponder on the truths therein.

This is my soapbox. Let me ramble. Putting it out of my chest helps me with my therapy.

Perhaps this is all we humans can do. Share the feelings around. Share the distress. Share the love.

I'm always elated every time I get a DM from a reader telling me how much they enjoyed my work. I guess I'm truly writing for a handful of people. One of them even DM'd me to complain they didn't find my Patreon link. I had to tell them I didn't have one.

Why?

Because deep down, I feel my work is worthless. Not good enough to monetize. I would feel awful for shamelessly taking people's money for it.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Also, I feel like that if I converted my work from an amateurish hobby to, well, paid work, something would fundamentally change.

Perhaps this might explain why I was so distressed the last few months. I was betraying the purity of the art.

Someone is yelling at me. I glance up from my screen, to find a park guard waving. The Princess actresses were long gone. Oh, no. Wait. Who's that girl?

Green hair, a white and silver dress with a skirt that only reaches her knees, tall boots, and a sword by her side. I squint. She has long ears and the props seem top-grade.

Though I cannot recall what franchise her costume belongs to. It has an Anime vibe and doesn't seem at all like a Disney character.

Our eyes meet and she smiles. The actress makes a beeline toward me. I need to record this. She moves past the park guard, leaving the man baffled. It seems he too doesn't recognize the costume. If I remember the park rules, people can cosplay so long they don't pretend they are part of the park. No autographs, posing for pictures, and the like.

"Father!" She shouts at me.

"What?" I shout back. The damn incoming storm is deafening. Dark clouds mire the sky in their... darkness. Trying my best here, dude.

"Father! Come with me!"

She seems really concerned. But I don't have a daughter? Was I supposed to play along?

"What?" I repeat myself like an idiot. I surely don't have a daughter that old. Or any daughter at all. And God is my witness I haven't cheated on my wife in all these twenty-plus years of relationship.

I presume it's harder for someone with my psychological makeup to cheat. It's hard enough to form and maintain a relationship without bothering to appease two women at once. Not at the same time, I'll assume the reader understood me.

"Miss, you need to evacuate. you too!" The guard tries to grab her arm.

The actress somersaults away from the man, vaulting over ten feet in the air. She is wearing thighs under her skirt so no indecency there.

"[LEAVE]!" She says to the guard. Her words reverberate in the wind.

Baffled, I see the security guard turn around, walk a few steps, and then run away as the weather picks up. Rain starts to fall. The umbrella over my café table keeps none of it away from me. But the girl has not a single ounce of water on her. She approaches and stops two yards away.

"Father, come with me. Esperia needs your help."

"Lady, I must praise you for your work discipline, but I think we should evacuate."

She chuckles and waves a hand over me. The raindrops start to veer away from me. Surprised, I glance around and see that everywhere but around us, the rain keeps on castigating the ground and the park features. This... was not supposed to happen. I turn around in my seat and check for any hidden transparent contraptions that may be keeping the rain away from us.

I find nothing.

"I concur, father." She says with a filial smile. "Come with me."

Suddenly, I remember I didn't come to the park alone. I jolt upright and scan the surroundings. Not a soul to be seen. Where was my wife and kid?

"They are fine," she read in my face. "They were in a restaurant's restrooms when the rift opened."

Oh. good. Wait, WHAT RIFT? I threw my eyes wide open.

"Esperia needs you, father," she repeats with all the patience in the world.

"What? Where is Esperia?"

"On the other side of the rift."

Okay. I'm a fiction writer. My IQ is about one and a half standard deviations above the average. I can take a hint.

"Not on this planet."

"indeed."

"Fuck."

"Dad! Language!"

I stare at her, desperately trying to read her face. But my autistic (diagnosis pending, I hadn't yet finished the tests) self sucks at that. I often miss a lot of subtle social cues.

"Are you an actress?"

"No, I'm not an [Actress]." She replied with an amused smile.

I often miss social cues but this one was right there.

The way she said the word made me gawk. It had a subtle hum to it, it deeply reverberated in my mind.

"Why are you calling me father, then?"

"Because it's the truth. Though..." She fidgeted a little with her skirt.

"You're from the future," I state. I'm a fiction writer and a pantser to boot. One cannot fathom the amount of stray and often absurd thoughts I have. I remember a quote by Sherlock Holmes...

Her expression softens so much I would dare say she looked like a lovesick maiden. One that thought I was her father figure, so nothing wrong or adulterous there. In fact, I searched my feelings and didn't find any hint from the Force. I guess becoming a Jedi is impossible for me. I told you I had tons of stray thoughts. Most of them utter nonsensical ones. The world should thank me for keeping the vast majority of them to myself.

Also, I'm writing this in the middle of a storm. Never mind the tense shift. Some things I type as they happen, others after the fact. Deal with it.

"I cannot say more than I already did."

"If going into this rift would make me sire you, then... I'm sorry but—"

"I don't have a mother," She blurts out and then winces. The rain suddenly washes over us. She regains her stance, frowns, and then the rain starts to avoid us again.

Huh. I'm not worthy of such an elaborate prank.

"I don't have a belly button either."

I raise a hand to shield my face and look away. "Not interested."

She laughed.

"If you are from the future, then I have entered that rift already, right?"

"Not really. I won't bother you with transdimensional time physics. But there are realities where you go in and others that you do not."

"Please, do bother me."

"It would make for good research material, right?" She winked at me. "There's plenty more on the other side of the rift."

I glanced at the computer. It had some water on it. She waved a hand and the water picked itself up, floated up forming a sphere, and flew away. The screen was still on, and the prompt still blinked. The clock on the bottom right turned another minute. Not damaged.

"Go ahead and finish your letter."

"I should see to my family." I sit and start to type.

She frowns. "They are fine. I'm right here." I pick some anger underneath her words.

"I'm sorry."

Suddenly, she huffs in annoyance and confesses, "I wished I could hug you. But we cannot touch."

"Some time paradox stuff?"

"Yes. I'm on another wavelength, so to speak. Keep writing. Put down the words while they're fresh. I'll need them later."

"Later for me, or later for you?"

She points at me. So she has already read this and is acting according to the script.

"You might make a better actress than you think."

"Not interested."

I finish my record. Then I save the draft. "Better?"

"Now, publish it."

Sorry, but I guess the dear reader will never know how this ends. At the time of this writing, I don't either. I run the draft through a spelling check and hit submit.