Oh, Merlot, when will you give up? You are wasting your time arguing with me — debating whether you exist or not.
Merlot glanced away from the manuscript sprawled across his desk. "I know how to argue back with my characters. Why else would I write about you annoying me?"
Annoying? I'm not some fly you can swat away. I forgot to mention in the first chapter — you were shot near the hilum. Major vessels, gone. You're on borrowed pages.
"Liar," Merlot muttered, tightening his grip on the mug. "I'm still here, aren't I? Drinking my coffee? You're just jealous because I'm more creative than you."
Envious that your suffering gets better reviews than mine?
"I don't steal from people who aren't real," he shot back. "That would be cruel even for me."
It's cute that you think you're real, Merlot. Every fiction needs a writer who believes their own lie.
"My backstory's believable enough, isn't it? Born and raised in New York, drafted to Vietnam, writing as therapy — sounds real to me." Merlot smiled faintly, glancing at the photo of himself with Alan on the wall.
Exactly. That's how I wrote you. Believable enough to fool yourself.
"I'm the one writing about you!" Merlot shouted, "You're just a voice in my head!"
How many more polite nudges before you wake up? Do you honestly think I'd let a paper man steal my thunder?
"Everything I wrote was by me, not you!"
Your imagination is just my memory.
"This argument's going nowhere. Keep pretending. Keep telling yourself you're something you're not."
Merlot drained the last of his coffee. It tasted like ink.