“You are all destined to be Kings. You are all on the path to Glory. Look around you, beside you stand friends, comrades, strangers, and best of all rivals.” Out from his left, a fireball flew across the stage only to be dispersed by a magic barrier, “My Rival still stands beside me pushing further one step at a time.” It was a show of power, and with the smile curved across his face, the man held more eyes than this area allowed. His light eyes, contrasting his dark hair, shined with more enthusiasm than anyone else in the stadium.

I watched this scene with a reddened face, internally screaming as I heard the words preached by this school head. ‘I can’t believe I wrote that!’

“Every single one of you is a nobody. Every single one of you has no past. Every single one of you has no backing. That moment you walked through those doors, you lost it all. Today you will start down your destined path. It is only with talent and a fire under your ass, that you can stand at the apex.”

‘DAMN IT ALL!’ Hearing the words now first hand I was embarrassed beyond all belief. Writing something and seeing it with your own eyes is a totally different story.

‘I pissed off the wrong God.’

A completed novel is an author’s greatest achievement, a novel on hiatus is an author’s crowning regret. This novel was a mix of both of those: I wrote this novel to its completion before publishing it chapter by chapter on a standard light novel site. The problem was that its popularity was instantaneous. I was driven to make the story longer, by doing so flaws slipped by and fillers were added. I stalled the planned ending and added more needless events between the characters, introducing unplanned enemies, and unfleshed-out worlds. I eventually couldn’t even look at my own writing without being annoyed with myself. So, the ending became rushed, this story I poured my love into was put to a rushed final arc. During the final hundred chapters of the story, I couldn’t even read the comments in fear of their backlash. All the items I planned for, all the NPCs I named, all the worlds left unexplored. They were tossed into a document to never be given life.

“Top examinee, Anax Freelan!” There he stood proud, handsome, smiling, just as I had written him. Messy blond hair that fell right above his eyes, icy blue eyes that you desired to look at you alone with warmth, and golden tanned skin that I described as perfect wheat.

Now seeing him, I see a stereotype. I don’t see that same appeal I did on paper, I see perfection and that bugs me. In some ways looking back on it that was the intention, he was the perfect main character. He was the embodiment of every stereotype and people ate it up.

[Author has realized the flaw in his character ‘Anax Freelan’. Would Author like to bring forth changes?]

“What?” I spoke out loud but over the cheering for Anax, I wasn’t heard. ‘Was that the intention of me being sent here? To fix my story?’

I stared at the single line of information, and hesitated as I answered, ‘Yes,’. Before me, appeared a character template, my personal character template. I made one for every character that played a significant role in the story. Seeing it now again in front me I felt a tear run down my face. In some ways I guess I didn’t believe this was real. I stood rooted in place and felt a burning sensation in my chest. That tear had turned into waterworks as my mental state broke. The jokes I was telling were in hopes of easing the pain, but the escape didn’t last. The burning sensation rose up and came hurling out of my mouth. Inside the frozen world, I threw up.

My call to reality, my reminder this wasn’t a dream. That sickening sensation stayed there rumbling as a second-round threatened to come up. This world was real, the taste of vomit was real. This world I dreamed up since young, wasn’t my mere fantasy. The lines of writing that made up the characters filled with my soul, no longer existed only in illusions.

“Why when it’s all so real do I desire it all to be fake?” The broken words of a man without ambitions. I looked around the stadium at all the extras I created, all placeholders for comments of praise towards the main character. Even they held a special place in my heart, be it the snarky comebacks, humorous one-liners, or my own views on the outcomes. If I had to choose the characters I identified most with, it would the extras. As the author I never found myself as the main character but as the extras singing praises of the man who saved the world. The supporters who created funny scenes but were easily forgotten. The heroine always chasing after the main character’s shadow. These are who I saw myself as, the man behind the curtain.

Again, the vomit shot out and splattered the floor. With it came relief as nausea left and my nerves eased. It was time for the plot to move forward, but first I had to fix the main character. He was idealized to be perfect but that doesn’t make for an interesting personality to follow.

“The personality block is what stood out as the flaw, the main character is destined to always be handsome, but this personality is too much. It must be every other sentence that says the word righteous! I get it, he is an outstanding man, but this isn’t human!”

I deleted line after line and rewrote sentence after sentence perfecting the character. I added human flaws, I added mistakes, I added fears, I made him imperfect. I stared at the words but paused, was imperfect the way of defining it? The man on written on paper was more human than imaginable, so wouldn’t he then inherently be the perfect character? Someone who grows with the story, someone the reader can connect with in their hubris. Someone who will pull at the heart string with their tragedies.  Wasn’t it an imperfect, character who did so best?

My finger hung above the word save, violently shaking as the vibrations slowly moved all the way up my arm. Why was it so hard to click this single button! Why couldn’t I do it! There must have been something I missed, and my brain is telling me to find and fix it. There was still more to do.

I read the template over for hours but couldn’t find a single flaw. I didn’t add another word but still couldn’t press save. I stared up at the man on the stage, the smile he held, the glow of his eyes, and his perfectly straight posture. He was stereotypical, he was the ideal hero. He was unable to be related with, but I stared up at him with eyes of respect. I took a deep sigh and felt the strength in my neck weaken as my head fell towards the floor. I knew the answer, I didn’t want to change him.

This boy standing on stage was someone unreplaceable. I may be annoyed with the final product, I may dislike his choices, but he the closest thing I have to a child. Any parent admits they want the best for their child. They want them to be the best person in the world and would do anything to allow them to achieve such a goal. In contrast, at the same time, they want the child to become someone on their own to be their own person.

To an author, our characters are our children and no matter how many times we want them to make a difference we must respect their personalities and allow them to do as they wish. We may put in devices that force them towards the desired finale but that is because as parents we believe we know best.

Anax was a character who could have been written better but at the time of writing, I needed someone to idolize. I needed a role model and this fictional character made upon lines on a piece of paper filled that role excellently. With this in mind, I pressed cancel a smile etched on my face.