Twas a beautiful kingdom, and all was springtime and well. Birds chirped. Flowers bloomed. The princess sang love songs from her tower window, and the brave knight hanged on their every word.
Then a storm came.
And with it an ugly-wartsy troll, who sprouted up like a poisoned mushroom and kidnapped the princess.
Thankfully, the [continuity error] was an expert troll-hunter—
Psst! Knight…
As I was saying, the [continuity error]—
It’s your cue, Knight.
The [continuity error] was an expert troll hunter, so he knew he had to show up on time and—
Knight?
(Oh… fuck…)
(No…)
Pardon me, reader.
For the sake of narrative clarity, I’d like to backtrack and clarify that the brave knight hung on the princess’ every word.
<Too late.>
Who are you?
<I’m not in the story. Address me in parentheses.>
(Who are you?)
<I am the Ghost of the Absurd Interpretation!>
(What do you want?)
<I like to haunt stories and keep their narrators honest. Exploit inconsistencies, abuse ambiguities, manipulate syntax, etc.>
(I get it. I used hanged instead of hung. Innocent mistake. Very funny. Now give me back my Knight.)
<Say please.>
(Please.)
<No.>
The [continuity error] was a <useless> troll-hunter—
(Hey!)
<What is it now?>
(Stop that.)
<OK. Fine. Take your Knight back.>
One more time. Given that the brave knight was an expert-troll hunter, <it was utterly tragic, but also kind of funny, that he would not be able to rescue the princess, as he’d recently hanged himself on one of the words—probably “sweetheart”—from one of the inane ballads she’d croon at him from her stupid little tower that her dad had built for her.>
(How could anyone hang himself from a word? Ridiculous.)
<Gimme a word to start…>
As <the princess sang, her words appeared as rose-scented and gilded clouds, drifting from her lips all the way down to the brave knight, who, unable to take any more of this permanent-springtime life and awful singing, took off his belt, attached one end to a cloud-word, wrapped the other around his neck, and as the cloud drifted up, so did the brave knight’s feet—kicking the air as he struggled to breathe, his face turned blue, and finally he expired.>
Then magically, through the power of honour and bravery, he came back to life <, only to discover that he was still attached to the cloud-word, and so he choked to death all over again.>
(There’s no winning this, is there?)
<Nope.>
(My only option is to stop telling the story.)
<You could always tell it to my own grim satisfaction.>
(Never!)
<Perhaps… punish the princess.>
(No!)
That, dear psycho-writing students, was a glimpse into the repressed mind of a fairy tale author. The inner struggle between what ought to be written and what is subconsciously desired. If left untreated, such desires emerge within the story, often personified as a kind of narrative monster.
There is no known cure.
However, research suggests one experimental treatment:
Writing horror stories on reddit!