Ced Aryan
I was standing by the next door staring at him; he was just drawn to write something yet somehow doesn't have any ideas to create such—The name's Ced Aryan, Jophiel's roommate and also, coincidentally, his books' editor. Jophiel had set his mind to focus only on one setting. And there, he came up with a school life genre and named his fictional place; 'Miguel Malvar National High School.' He wanted to create a cosmic horror paradox—where students weirdly transform into eerie and horrifying transformations that the author could just simply imagine, visualizing ridiculous scenarios that hovered around the limits of possibility. That's the beauty of being a writer—you hold the power to shape worlds, birth emotions, and let your imagination run wild, typing out whenever inspiration strikes and however your heart desires.
Furthermore, his plot had given him the idea to set all his series of books in only one setting; the school, identifying such characters and personalities as those of a student.
He sighed, pushing the thoughts aside for a moment. Sometimes, it wasn't about forcing the story out; sometimes, it was just about letting the characters breathe.
As for me, still standing there, with arms crossed. "Got something?" I asked, my voice light but knowing.
Jophiel barely glanced up, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. "I think so."
It was already a quarter of three in the afternoon when he first typed out his first sentences…
Jophiel had a series of thoughts on what kind of character was really suitable for such a description. Nevertheless, he ultimately was inspired by his former friends. Not that of a social climber but rather, a 'fame whore.' He giggled at his way of describing such a character, as his hands typed faster. And with each pace for every time that he had worked through, his eyes would just simply gauge out of elation.
He had worked his way to page three of the novel, but he'd barely moved on to the next words. His eyes kept wandering down to the screen, even though he knew what was waiting for him there.
And for a sudden moment when I arrived with bags of groceries, a big, black and red letter stared back at him from the shirt of mine printed just in its spot on the front, "No More Fictional Characters."
Just as Jophiel was about to eat the groceries I had bought, he hurriedly ran back to his room, and continued to type descriptions to finish his work.
"Her name is now a symbol for a person who is not human anymore."
Jophiel was reflecting on the weight of the narrative he had crafted. Over the last few pages, as he read through the text in front of him once more, this time with a critical eye. The plot was good, he thought, if not too simplistic, but it lacked…something. The main point of the story—wasn't the story, he realized…with a heavy heart. It was the character; the words that he used to describe his persona were not enough—it was the emotions that his main character, and his own inability to adequately portray them, that he didn't quite know how to fix. He needed more adjectives and better descriptions to smoothen out the portrayal of his writings with which to describe her personality. Something that defined who she really was.
And for a moment, he took down a heavy breath as he flipped to the previous section; he knew he could do better than that. Jophiel closed his eyes, letting the familiar words wash over him again. Phrases and forms had sunken through his mind.
"Yet, a terrible fright persisted within the mysterious tragedy of her change, masking her own existence and haunting both the hallucinations of her impending death and her present."
He finally had typed his last sentences into his laptop with a click of the mouse. Jophiel leaned back, stretching his neck and cracking his fingers before getting up to put away the computer. The sun was still high in the sky outside the large apartment office window, making it hard to keep track of the time without any of his personal clocks on hand—it has already been three weeks since he had started writing, and the book was well on the road to becoming something more than just a collection of characters from various fictions. It didn't take long, either. Jophiel smiled at his own reflection, watching his lips stretched wide around his white teeth and his eyes crinkle with pleasure. His expressions looked good, but his face had no signs of good sleep. His work was all done and he was in the arms of Morpheus as the minutes ticked away, mocking the pursuit of peaceful rest.
The next morning, he handed out his finished manuscript to the editor's house, waiting for such time to arrive at my office. The final drafts were all sorted out and edited. And after two months of editing and finalizing, his book was finally published. The title was seemingly weird, but I had nothing to do with it—after all, Jophiel is the author.