Fate's Vinculum

A [Weird] Note From Sarah

This happened several times, each night being introduced to a new character. Every night, I began frantically writing the new story I had been told. In my dreams I met two men; the next night, a demon (he was very, very kind, but once again I was absolutely terrified being in the presence of a demon). The last two who came to me were shocking.

Once I awoke in a very strange situation. I was outside, I think; the atmosphere (sky?) was a periwinkle, like the color just before sunrise. There was a thick fog all around. I sat at a white table, with a white table cloth. An ornate, white tea set sat on the table.

You can imagine my utter bewilderment when an angel with massive wings who was sitting across from me poured me tea. I began praying, then apologizing because I knew so little about religion and prayers that I was sure I was reciting the wrong ones; I was a mess, making an absolute ass out of myself.

He finally spared me from my shame with a roll of his eyes and raised his palm for me to stop (but only after I had gotten down to my knees, ready to prostrate at his feet). He told me to get up, that all that wasn't needed. Once I sat he then, in a rather begrudging manner, told me he knew I had spoken with the others. He then leaned forward, told me to drink my tea, and then plunged into his own story.

The strangest thing happened when he was done talking then. A thought occurred to me, one I hadn't really thought of until just then. I asked this angel why I was being told all this. His answer was simple, and yet complicated all at once:

"We came to you because we knew you would listen."

With those words I abruptly woke up.

It was strange; it was only five in the morning. I never wake up that early of my own accord. So I contemplated what the hell Sera had meant by saying that until I eventually drifted back to sleep.

The final dream I had was much shorter than the rest. I awoke a final time to someone standing at the side of my bed. By that point this had been happening for a week, so I had become used to it. This person was short, even slightly shorter than me. They wore a long brown cloak that looked like a friar's robe. As I sat up, they pulled back their hood.

"I am Fate," they told me.

I had outright laughed, knowing that it was a dream. "Sure you are."

Fate looked confused. Then Fate spoke.

"I wanted to thank you for your time."

I was baffled. "Um, you're welcome? For what?"

"For listening to us all."

I sat up in bed. "Am I supposed to do anything?"

Fate smiled and looked amused. "No. You've done enough."

Then I woke up.

About a year into writing each individual story, I suddenly realized something; I was writing the same story over, and over, and over again, just from different perspectives. In my infinite wisdom (sarcasm) I decided to mash every story into one, huge book–my first true novel.

It has proved problematic. Figuring out whose story went where was like playing chess. Figuring out how to tell multiple stories that were all running parallel was extremely difficult. This book has gone through at least ten revisions, with at least two full rewrites. It's been plagued by frustration; a hard drive died and everything on it couldn't be salvaged. My dumb ass lost not one, but two, TWO, separate flash drives. More recently, all of my original notebooks that had all of the hand-written stories were lost when our basement flooded.

Regardless, I still feel drawn to this story. It's my baby. I care too much about these characters that came to me in dreams to just not put this out there. I'm just a sentimental fool; I can't just let my first novel rot and die.

If anything else, it's a matter of logistics.

If I tallied up all the time I've spent on this story–the dreams, the physical writing, the day-dreaming; working on outlines and character charts, going so far as to do a complete Snowflake outline work up—it would be weeks worth of time, if not months. I can't abandon something I've spent so much time on. I even used to draw these characters, spending hours at a time trying to get it right.

I owe this to my younger self. This story was my savior when I was going through one of the worst periods of my life. I owe it to the characters who have felt very real to me. If no one likes this story, fine. If I fail at making this a readable book because I'm trying to salvage something from twenty years ago, before I was even a halfway decent writer, fine. This just needs to get out of me after twenty years.

It's time. 

Love,

Sarah