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Chap 1.5 - Page 1frangles: Skip book 1: Writer's Bricks
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              It was the beginning of Skip's future as a prolific siff frwoa writer sometime around the time when no writer anywhere had any clue what the hell they were doing.  It was also the beginning of the future in general.  Not just the beginning of the future in the way that any moment is the first moment of the rest of all eternity, but in the sense that even the idea of the future can bring about its tangible existence in any place where no one's given the issue of the future much thought.
              In fact, that imagination and creativity could actually form tangible reality was something Skip had quickly learned.  It had taken him a good half hour to realize he had any potential skills of the sort, but he had definitely made progress, because for the first time he could remember, Skip's imagination was truly forming the very fabric of reality: a major step toward the greatest Flutonian frwoa that would ever be fritten.  Or at least, revealing a reality that was there all the time that Skip had unconsciously repressed in order to trick himself into thinking he thought it all up.  That would have certainly explained some of his amnesia, but not his gentle ethical outlook on being as honest a writer as possible.  Unless he was also suppressing the reality of being a dirty, fraudulent literary liar & thief.  (This seemed more likely for a novelist, but he supposed he would never know.)
              As to what to create and/or bring into existence, Skip had definitely been through enough bizarre, non sequitur nonsense to have picked a particular topic for his frwoa.  However, he'd also become so fed up with bizarre, non sequitur nonsense that he now decided to think up a second option: a perfectly mundane, secular, sensical, and non non sequitur place called Earth.  Since this Earth idea would need fleshing out, the first thing his gut told him to do was think up somewhere to put it.  He quickly discarded many momentarily plausable places: among them, in a dwarf, phylo thesis, pigeon, gust of wind, pool of fish, or cozy campfire, for reasons that should be obvious.  He also discarded putting Earth in a fishbowl, Christmas tree ornament, or cracker jack box, as these would make everyone else seem more relatively god-like than Skip was comfortable with allowing.  Therefore, he decided to just think up a whole known universe (Okuaka), so nobody beyond it could seem god-like without a really, really, really good magnifier.
              As to when to write about, he quickly discarded the present, since the only present thing that's going on while a writer is writing is the fact that they're writing, which isn't a very adventure-packed topic.  After a brief consideration, he discarded the past as well, since he hadn't much luck with his own past to the best of his memory, especially the time he'd wasted just now considering the present and the past as frwoa topics.  He considered that perhaps a writer should write from experience, but because he didn't care much for his experience (and couldn't remember it very well anyway, not to mention experience being something that generally has to accumulate in the past, which Skip had now already discarded as a topic), it made more sense to write about a whole bunch of crap that he had no experience with but could eventually, but that would probably never happen.  "It's only the future that matters," Skip thought, "especially when you're prone to bouts of chronic am--amm.... amnesty?  What's the word...?"
              The other reason Skip didn't bother worrying about the particulars of his past was something someone once told him about nonlinear frwoa writing: the more vague and general things are, the more disorganized a writer is allowed to be since they never have to keep their pages in order.  Keeping a messy office and not writing much of anything is hence the most efficient way of writing fractal nonlinear fiction.  This method seemed very preferable for Skip given that his experience, his amnesty and memory regarding what topic he'd just chosen were all entirely questionable by now given that he did, incidentally, have chronic, diagnosable tendencies toward short-term and long-term amnesty.
              Though perhaps Skip could get two birds with one brick, because the more Skip wrote about the future, the more all his freers would have to induce some vaguely relevent psychosis of what had happened before, leaving everyone with the continuous hallucinatory epiphany, "Ah, now that's what I've been missing!"  So, given that his creative endeavor heavily involved the futures of space-time, Earth, amnesty, Skip himself, and fictional literature, Skip decided with ineffable originality to call his endeavor "Future Fiction", particularly, Future Fiction about the non-nonsensical non-non sequitur place called Earth.  It all seemed like a nifty idea for at least 2 or 3 moments before Skip considered a whole plethora of future Future Fiction problems.
              Firstly, being prone to chronic amnesty, Skip had no idea whether Future Fiction had ever been done before.  If it hadn't, then he would certainly have the joy of being the first radical genius (or at least the lucky drunk yutz) to expose the vastness of possibilities of a bold new fictional genre and all its applications and potential that surely everyone will line up to copy and immitate, earning him George Lucas level ownership rights over not just a franchise but an entire genre of fictional literature.  In fact, if writing about the future had never been attempted, it might even earn him a certain intelectual ownership of the magnitude at which he'd improve an artistic medium, which might also give him certain ownership rights if anyone else ever ripped his idea off by thinking up a big and mega-radical art form.  (Past Fiction, for instance.)  Of course, this would all rely on the chance that nobody, ever, anywhere had ever written a story about the future in the history of all existence.
              Hence, tabling the supernaturally optimistic case scenario and progressing straight to the infinitely hell-deep cynical case one to be fair, Skip considered the possibility that Future Fiction (or "Fue-fi" for short, he decided) had not just been done, but that every single possible particular instance of Fue-fi had been already written.  (This wasn't too much of a leap from the idea that none of it had ever been attempted, since all the difference would require is one single, sole ADHD/dyslexic mistake of Skip's or someone involved in the matter:  mistaking the past for the future or visa versa.)  Not caring for the infinitely hell-deep cynical case at all, Skip decided how to prepare for it.  It was a very genius and original plan (assuming it was his at all), and it went like this.

              Supposing that nothing in the universe is completely unlike anything else, then every writable story is a rip off of the union of everything else that even vaguely resembles it.  Hence any story is in danger of an infringement lawsuit if the right set of angry people gang up against its writer with a good lawyer.  Of course, another good lawyer could counter with the defense of the Union of Minor Excerpts--that all the work's intrinsic parts adhere entirely to local Fair Use laws which in combination render it fully allowable under Fair Use and Right of Parody--but only to the extent that Fair Use laws are applicable in the jurisdictions in question, and to the extent that the lawyer is a very, very good one.  Finally, Skip decided that a writer can basically only write what's financially feasible.
              Since Skip certainly seemed broke, he came up with a game plan.  If he were to write the most generic and general Fue-fi story imaginatble, it would only infringe upon any other Fue-fi story ever written to an infinitesimal extent.  Then it would take the entire collective body of Fue-fi writers that had ever lived (if any had at all) to take him down, which seemed so infinitesimally likely as to be not worth planning for.  Plus, if he was the only one to ever attempt Fue-fi and dropped dead next week, at least Okuaka would be left with a one-fits-all Fue-fi frwoa not limited to a small cult niche, like sentient-AI-nukes-the-planet-fi or 8-year-old-farm-boy-saves-the-galaxy-fi or Why-Scifi-channel-changed-their-name-to-Syfy-fi.
              Yet the second major problem with writing Earth Future Fiction was still at large: other than mindlessly parotting the exact events around him for the past half-hour or so, Skip hadn't a spec of experience with ever having written anything at all.  This seemed a pretty good time to start, especially since the fate of humanity (incidentally) depended on Skip not !@#$ing up his first manuscript.  As Skip began and his train of thought ran on, he had no idea where he was going or whether he was doing any good at getting there.  He may have been heading towards a lump of unpublished nonense, or was actually bringing forth whole realities from the very fabric of Nonbeing with magnificent diligence.  (Perhaps the two were equated.)  Wherever the windy whirls of thought carried him--fabricated friter nonsense or real life adventure into the vast mysteries of space-time--one thing was clear: only his imagination would keep him in and out of trouble.

              " 'Prose... the friter's front-- front... --front man?  Front wheel drive?  Fruntal nudity?...'
              " 'Prose, the ultimate artistic medium.  These are the mots of a writer's noble battle against third person idea-starvation, chronic amnesty, and crippling writer's... writer's blick?  -brick?  -rock?  -crock?...  against writers, uh, whatever, all chaining him to the cruel cloudless ground of an uncloudly, cloudless earth.  The'--no, I can't say cloudless three times in a row.  How about,
              " 'It was the year 88 billion, when science and matter-manipulation had advanced so infinitely as to be indistinguishble with the blank mindless thought of Flutonia, and only a small courageous group of quantum physicists stood in resistence against the Intergalactic Empire of Unified Philosophy...'  Nah, err... Alright;
              " 'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good manuscript must be in want of... of... of frontal nudity?'...no, no, no...
              " 'To read, to fread, or not to read!  For in those dreams of friter publication...' "

              As Skip narrated, the standard, mundane vifa Earth train he had--incidentally--been riding on for quite some time now shifted and metaphorphosized as he spoke.  It left the fading memory of how it had become a dull present day city subway train to dust in favor of the exitement of advancing future developments in transportation technology.  Its worn, painted maps became slick digital navigational displays.  Its LED lights displaying the stop names became hovering holographic images of relevent route information.  The bumpy ground-ride became an even, subtle hum as if gliding on air instead of rusty lumpy bumpy tracks.  Each nails-on-chalkboard screech when turning corners became a gentle whiissshh of re-direction.
              How was it all happening?  Was Skip manipulating the fabric of reality via thought?  It didn't seem the physics ruling the matter around him allowed such a thing.  The only creativity it seemed to involve were the ideas of the mildly-creative nerd engineers who came up with it all.  Perhaps he was simply waking up to a world that he'd repressed away in order to think it back up as his own fraudulent, self-centered idea...  Whatever was happening, it was real.  Skip wasn't delusional or dizzy or dreaming; he wasn't stoned or high; he hadn't died and been pushed into a near-death experience; he wasn't being abducted by the eerie white glow of an alien abduction in the middle of the night half-drunk on Nyquil.  It was all real, physical tangible matter, just so advanced as to seem almost magical.
              As Skip concentrated on where his advancing train of thought--and hence the Future of Earth--was going to be going rather than where it was at the moment or where it had been or had been going before, its once-clunky train engine slid to a gentle vibrating hum, then into a gentle quantum riff.  Its metal phased with patches of wondrous reflective translucence.  It was definitely going somewhere, and it was definitely getting there fast.  Skip could only name it one thing: light-accelerative quantum technowarp hyper-go.
              By the time Skip approached a stop, it was finally the future.  The future  of the present, the future of Earth, the future of Future Fiction, and the future of Skip's short life as an obscure siff writer somewhere between now and the killer cliffhanger at the end of the episode.

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