A Writer's Guide to Immortality

“When I say Barn Owl, what comes to mind?” I ask my husband while staring blankly at the screen.

“What the…?” He responds in bewilderment. Laughing, I turn the screen, showing him the prompt.

“They want something with an owl in it… doesn’t matter if it’s a big or small contribution, there just has to be an owl… C’mon, unemployment hasn’t paid us in weeks, and we could really use the money… So, when I say ‘Barn Owl,’ what comes to mind?”

“Did you know that there’s an Owl on the USA one dollar bill?”

“What the heck, no way, where?” Pulling out his phone he types the query into google, ‘Owl on $1 bill.’ Expecting to find some random conspiracy theory, I’m somewhat disappointed when we find a video about how there are spider webs lining the edges of the bill, and what he thought was an owl is said to be a spider, or possibly just a converging of webs in the design. In short, a coincidence.

“Well, that was… Anticlimactic,” I tell him with a short laugh. Albert just shakes his head with a frown.

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s probably got some meaning for the person who designed it, I mean think about it! Writers always seem to put in their writing subliminal messages, references to vague theories and hobbies or myths, tall tales… Games almost always have easter eggs, and most art has hidden signatures or symbols in it, ‘Where’s Waldo,’ style. Why not currency too?”

“Yea, I guess that makes sense. Why do you do it, though?” Shrugging, I look around, trying to find the words to explain the urge that I have when creating things to hide imagery for people to find.

“I dunno, I guess it’s like this impulse. Something that enhances the story or adds an element of mystery. There’s a good chance that, at first, nobody will notice the hidden elements, the subtle references to gods and goddesses and cultures long dead. But then, if I did my job right, after a while people will come back to the story, or the painting, or the game, and they’ll dig a little deeper into the lore, the names, the symbols… Who knows, maybe they’ll find things that I didn’t intend, like people calling ‘Pokémon’ animal abuse. I’m pretty sure that was never how it was intended, but that’s how some people took it, and now that narrative as well as others have taken on a life of their own. The story in and of itself is a whole culture, it has a following. I think, for creators, that’s what drives them, even more than the chance at recognition. You’re making something that can enrich someone else’s life, and hiding symbols and details in it that will, one day, be looked at in a different light and take on a life of their own. I think that’s the true way people find immortality, when you think about it. You leave something behind that takes on a life of its own, then even when you’re gone, part of you lives on in this art.” I pause, taking a deep breath, and watch him carefully.

“Ok, I guess that makes sense… Is that why you create?” Frowning, I close my eyes in concentration.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not? I think I create because it makes me feel… and not feel, too. Like… I guess it takes me away from the struggles of reality, and I get to be, or do, or see anything, and I can control it, almost every aspect… Sometimes it’s like it’s someone, or something, else, working through me, but usually it’s me, just… more? Does that make sense?” I ask hesitantly, struggling to put the emotions bubbling up inside of me into coherent words for him to understand.

When writing, the words just flow from my fingertips. When drawing or painting the colors escape me before I even know what I’m doing. But talking… talking is hard. Verbal expression without preparation, it’s terrifying, and I think that’s because there’s no backspace, no erase. If you say the wrong thing when talking to someone, you can’t just make them unhear it, but if you write the wrong thing or draw the wrong thing, it can be erased, like it never existed.

Albert just watches me while I sit there, chewing on my lip in thought. After a moment he smiles and gives me a kiss, nodding in understanding of all the words that I couldn’t say. Grinning at him, I nod back.

“You’re awesome,” I tell him happily.

“Yea you are,” he responds. After a moment he grabs me a soda, gives me another kiss, and leaves the room.

Alone with my thoughts, I ponder everything said, and unsaid. I worry about the words written and unwritten. After a moment I shrug, place my fingers upon the keyboard, and begin to write.

‘Running through the woods, I glance back over my shoulder, shuddering at the shadows of every tree. The shrieking of owls in the distance sending bursts of adrenaline rushing through my limbs as I continue crashing through the boughs of the ancient trees before me…’