UNSCRIPTED

Today, I’m going to write a story.

A real one.
With magical metaphors, a properly setup plot, creative characters and maybe even a dragon.

Here we go:

It was a warm and sunny day,

I don’t actually know why I wrote that. Am I writing that because I can’t think of anything else? That’s how people start these things, right? Wrong, how about a classic.

Once upon a—

This is the equivalent of showing up to a science fair with a baking soda volcano. Everyone has seen it, and no one’s impressed. I could always start with a question, no one has ever done that.

“Have you ever wondered what makes a story great?”

Ugh. That sentence alone feels like it belongs in a very bad one.

Forget it. I’ll just start writing.
The story will come to me.
The teacher said so.

…

Yeah, it’s not coming to me.
Still nothing.
Spoiler: It did not.

What did come to me was a headache and a distracted urge to organize my refrigerator. Stop overthinking and just start already. A character. A setting. Something. Take 27.

This is Bob.
Bob likes bread.

Boom! I can use literary techniques and rhythm devices like alliterations, assonance and consonance. But that’s it. That’s all we ever learn about Bob.
He’s the placeholder of the story—like the kid in your group project who just sits there holding a marker but never does anything. That’s Bob, the underwritten blank slate. Somewhere, still in the story void, holding on to his bread.

Waiting.

Then there was Karen.
She was exactly five feet, nine and a half inches tall.
Her hair? Butter blonde, with exactly six waves per side.
She had a banana shaped birthmark behind her left earlobe and a scar shaped like the state of Montana—specifically, Gallatin County, just outside Bozeman, near the corner of Sourdough Road and Goldenstein Lane.
Her favorite smell was vanilla, unless it was raining.
And she once had a dream about a goat.

Karen is over described but empty. She exists in the category of characters we know everything about, and yet somehow, we know nothing at all. We know her shoe size, her sleep schedule, her favorite clothing patterns, and the way she takes her coffee, obviously with oat milk.
But ask what she wants?
Why she’s here?
Yeah—we got nothing.

Speaking of vanilla, meet Lucian Steele.
He was 27.
Obviously a billionaire.
Because, as we all know, most 27 year olds have figured out life enough to build an empire before breakfast.
He was the CEO of something vaguely techy and extremely mysterious.
His eyes? Bluish. Probably closer to grey.
He owned a skyscraper in Seattle, a sailboat he could maneuver perfectly, and a private jet named Lusty Scream, to match his initials.
He smelled like leather…
…and deeply repressed trauma.

Lucian is a woman’s fantasy. He’s a shortcut dressed in sophistication, the IKEA furniture of character choices. You don’t see this kind of role written for someone broke, bald, or living in a trailer park. No, that story starts with a beer can and ends with a body count.

My characters are clearly ready.
Time to give them something to do.
I’m going with a classic: The Chosen One.

Bob was just an ordinary, everyday bread guy… until an owl delivered a scroll that said: “You alone must defeat the dragon. Because… reasons.”
Then Karen showed up, all five feet nine and a half inches of her, in a cloak for some reason and said: “You were born for this, Bread Boy.”
Lucian took off his sunglasses in slow motion.
He was indoors.
At night.
But drama is drama.
“I thought I was the Chosen One,” he whimpered.
So we had two Chosen Ones.
And no idea what was actually going on.

The most overused plot device in fantasy history.
Cliche.
Next.
How about a thriller across time, space, and most importantly any and all reality constraints.

They started in Seattle.
Then they were suddenly on Mars.
Meanwhile Lucian blinked and they were in a medieval village ruled by sexy otters.
“Where are we?” Karen asked.
I don’t know how we got here.
I don’t remember writing a portal.
Or a scene transition.
Or… honestly, anything that made sense.
But here we are.
Narrative fluidity.
Bob clutched his loaf tightly.
He did not like where this was going.
Lucian adjusted his collar.
“Finally,” he said. “A kingdom worthy of my ways.”
One of the otters winked.

I feel dizzy, how about one last try.
I’m thinking action!
Straight to the climax, no foreplay needed.
Because you can never have too much, action that is.
I just agonized through the entire Mission: Impossible series, so I should know.

“The kingdom is under attack!” Bob shouted, flinging his bread like it was a weapon. It hit a pigeon.
“Ugh. Again?” said Karen. “We just saved the kingdom last week.”
Lucian unsheathed a sword made of sadness and sapphire. It sparkled. “Focus,” Karen snapped. “Who’s even attacking us?”
“No one knows,” Bob answered. “The plot hasn’t said yet.”
Pause.
“So we’re defending a kingdom we don’t understand, from enemies who don’t exist, using weapons made of … what, Lucian’s feelings?”
Lucian blinked. “And sapphire.”
Bob nodded. “And bread. Probably.”
No one knew what was happening.
But it was very dramatic.
And very, very confusing.

So far, I’ve written three hollow characters, put them through three terribly typical plots, and given up on logic somewhere around the sexy otter medieval madness. At this point, there is only one thing left to ruin: the ending.

Endings are hard.
Sometimes you write fourteen pages just to give up and say:

“…and then it was all a dream.”

Which is really just storytelling for “I didn’t know how to clean up this mess, so I set it on fire and walked away.”

Then there’s the mysterious ending:

“…or did they?”

Which sounds cool until you realize you’ve created 47 plot holes and zero answers.
Lucian loves this one.

And of course, the classic shrug:

“Anyway, that’s it. I guess.”

Just a slow walk off into the sunset, carrying Bob and his loaf of bread.

If you’re still reading, congrats! You just survived my first draft.
Real stories don’t come prepackaged and microwavable. As tempting as a-story-in-a-box, sounds. Most of the time, they start like this:
A bread guy.
A blonde.
And a billionaire.
Too much.
Too soon.
And absolutely no clue how to land.

So yeah. That’s it. I guess.
Just kidding. Or am I?