Idiosyncratic

In the eyes of many aspiring writers, Lana Obukovna seemed a goddess. Barely three years into college, she could already claim publication in numerous magazines and journals, including the Neopian Times. There, she graced the world with her inner thoughts on all matters political, literary, linguistic, and avian―all spiced with irreverence. Bearing a sharp wit and unnerving detachment from reality, she provided a perspective few could reconcile with her frigid nature. It was one more fantastic, more surreal. All of this showed through in her writing, a collection of short stories and poems. The works told of neopets, faeries, and every creature in between, how they resembled one another, how they despised one another despite everything. It was a bizarre style that, though inaccessible to most, proved rewarding to all who read past the first paragraph. There was one requirement, though, to truly enjoy her works: one needed to fall into the demographic of perky, slightly unhinged, fantasy-loving teenagers and twenty-somethings. In all likelihood this was because she had been in that group for most of her life.

      Prior to her first honor—a name-drop at the esteemed Hagan Awards—she had seen writing as a means of expression and understanding, a way to reason internally with the baffling personalities around her. Her mother, owner of a chain of Shenkuuan fusion restaurants, was beautiful, socially aggressive, and loud; the father was similar, albeit more cerebral. Despite their near-identical temperaments—or perhaps because of them—they were wont to argue over the pettiest matters. Lana would often attribute her migraines to the noise, that din that plagued their household. Her odd sleep patterns also contributed, but her home life was the obvious culprit. In light of her parents' simultaneously predictable and unpredictable natures, she would flee daily to the berry orchards and write vignettes. Mostly they concerned winged petpets, whom she found simple, honest and charming; eventually she branched out to include faeries and neopets to make her stories more palatable to those who could actually read them. But due to her own idiosyncrasies, those neopets tended to have their own set of wings. This endeared her stories to a small group of teenaged faerie pets, who found it much easier to project themselves onto a character who happened to look just like them.

      One of her most devoted fans was Ellusia Nativ, more commonly known as "Ellie". The faerie Wocky was in the midst of her teenage years, during which her insecurities ran rampant. Despite bullying from all directions—her sister, classmates, and teachers alike—she took pride in her novels, taking herself for a rising star. She dedicated her time to writing and reading, poring over literary magazines to analyze the works of accomplished college students. Her favorite, The Boiling Kettle, regularly featured the works of Lana Obukovna. And ever since the first poem, Ellie had followed her writing. She never understood the author's love for wings, admittedly. She liked her own just fine, but it was nothing to make into a recurring theme.

      Lana Obukovna was an enigma, to say the least.

      ***

      At the start of summer, Ellie stumbled upon the idol. It happened to be at a coffee shop, which is a rather convenient place for an encounter with one's favorite author. The air was thick with a motley of odors, from sickly sweet pound cake to darkly roasted coffee beans. For several minutes Ellie had waited in line, glancing from time to time at the shop's other customers while her drink was brewed. A double-shot espresso―that was all she needed for a day of productivity. That and a bag of chips.

      A brown Kacheek leaned against the counter in exhaustion, carrying over her shoulder a bag filled with morphing potions. Clearly a restocker, and clearly a good one—the curves and curls of a Draik morphing potion were visible through the cloth. Behind her, a green Grarrl was decked out in Yooyuball garb, sweat slinking down his neck from the strain of practice. Neopets brushed past one another, all showing a streak of impatience. The only serene character in the room, oddly enough, was the Usul across the room. With fur as white as snow and eyes red by nature and by exhaustion, she brought to mind an unstable yet charming student beloved by her peers. This, at least, was how she struck Ellie, what with the notebooks and papers that covered her entire table. Yet there she was, indifferent to all that went on in the world, showing no expression beyond infrequent irritation. Squinting, Ellie peered over at the writing, her eyes widening as she took in two words at the top of each paper―and of course. It made sense.

      She was Lana Obukovna.

      Ellie's throat tightened; she began tugging at the ruff of corn-colored fur around her neck. She picked up her drink and walked awkwardly over to the table, sipping with great deliberation. For several moments she stood there, expecting the Usul to immediately detect her presence. Given none, she finally whispered her greetings and won Lana's attention.

      "What is it?" The white Usul blinked, as if adjusting to a change in lighting. "I'm... busy."

      "Ah, well―I'm a bit of a fan," Ellie confessed. "I follow The Boiling Kettle a lot and I love reading your works―the one from the month of hunting was really good. I mean, I didn't entirely understand it, but, I mean, there was a lot of deeper meaning."

      "It was very straightforward, actually. It was more an allegory for the tragic state of the Neopian Times than anything," Lana said in a clipped tone. Almost on cue, Ellie's eyes glazed over. With a shrug, the Usul went on: "It's a very complex issue, admittedly. I wouldn't expect many Neopians to understand it."

      "But―well, I'm―" She searched through her mind for the proper words. "Anyway, I was reading―I mean, I was writing this story last night. It was really late, but oh well, my sleep schedule is messed up. Like, I've practically espresso running through my veins. It's weird. But, well, I'm writing this story―and I thought I could use your help. I remembered your first story, back when you were just eighteen, being published in the local paper―and I was all over it, it was crazy. That one just hit me really hard, given all the stuff about family and identity? And I thought, hey, I want to write a story like this. I want to be a big writer like you."

      There was no response. The Usul's mind was focused solely on her work, as if nothing else existed beyond faeries and flowers. It took much strain for Ellie to avoid looking over her shoulder to see just what about the writing was more important than her conversation. For as much as she respected an author's right to privacy, the social discomfort was frustrating her.

      "But see, I think I've hit a block. None of the characters are doing anything right, and I just―I don't know what to do? I was wondering if you could help m―" The notebook slapped shut and the chair slid back. Papers rustled into a pile. Without a second look, the Usul stood up and walked away silently. Eventually her silhouette faded out of sight, merging with the crowd in the coffee shop.

      All there was left to do was stare.

      ***

      Sliding the door shut, Lana eased into her dorm room and let herself fall backwards onto the bed. She stared blankly at the ceiling above, with all its cracked plaster and fading paint.

      Throughout her life, she would avoid every social situation not out of anxiety, but lack of interest. To her, they were extraneous and frivolous; they were a sickly sweet glaze on a fat piece of dough that no one would have wanted in the first place. People, in her mind, were silly. And often ugly. Hence her love for petpets, which struck her as easier to relate to and care for. She assumed it was simplicity and grace and nothing but. When she chose to communicate with others, it was through her writing, where she spilled out every thought with no regrets. To her fans, she was elusive, only occasionally responding to letters. It made her appear uncaring, and it was unclear if that was the case. She certainly worried about people―the fact of the matter was that she did not want to get caught up in everyday emotions. The rare times she observed them had not been fruitful, and only confirmed her dislike for other neopets.

      Even so, they were fountains of inspiration. Particularly when they appeared with wings.

      ***

      "Okay, writing, writing," Ellie said. The pages filled up as the story progressed. Clocking in at two-hundred and twelve pages of lined paper, her novel should have been complete―and yet she had barely made it halfway. The characters were at each others' throats, soon to blow everything out of proportion, transforming it into the war of personalities she so desired. At the root of every problem was her protagonist, self-righteous and unlikable. Strange how so much trouble could come from denying responsibility. Perhaps she could make this into a regular plot device.

      Twenty-one. Obukovna was twenty-one, finishing up her major in creative writing at a prestigious all-girls college. Barely five years older than Ellie, she was already an accomplished author. And as the encounter had shown, she was perfectly normal―distant and short, perhaps, but still attached to the earth. That was her hope. But that was irrelevant; everything was irrelevant at this point. For Ellie, the Usul was inspirational. She had published her very first at a young age, to rave reviews. With sufficient pushing and pulling, anyone could achieve her level of quality. If one simply tried harder, Ellie presumed, one could surpass it. So came her goal: to publish her first story in a literary magazine, to set herself up for success. All at the tender age of sixteen. Obukovna would be Ellie's inspiration and there was nothing she could do about it. She would fuel her aspirations.

      Hours passed and the writing began to lose steam. She sipped her coffee in determination. In the next room over, a paw rapped against the paper-thin wall and a voice groaned: "Go to bed, stupid." Ellie continued with her writing, rolling her eyes and clicking her pen rapidly as if to send a message in Morse code: Make me. Shortly after the door swung open to show a faerie Xweetok, donning a lavender nightgown and a snow-white shower cap. Her fur, wet from the bath, released droplets as she stomped over to the desk and ogled her older sister's work. With turquoise eyes rolling, the Xweetok asked, "What're you writing that's so important, anyway?"

      "A story," said Ellie tersely. Beside her desk was a pile of composition notebooks, a spectrum of colors all marbled with white. Pen-filled mugs sat on the windowsill by the desk, next to which stood an enormous cork board tacked up with notes and index cards. A plot twist here, a backstory there—everything was planned out and meticulously aligned. She looked over at her sister, magenta eyes bright. "How's school, by the way?"

      Further rolling eyes. "It's summer."

      "Right, right, sorry." The Wocky stared off to the side, where a pile of plushies cluttered around the foot of her bed. "Remember that one girl—Oona, was it?" At the name Perri's face lit up, then quieted its excitement to a more acceptable tone. "I ran into her back in fall. Sort of. I think more like, she ran into me."

      "Did she dump her angst on you?" Perri asked sharply, tilting her head to the right. "That's kind of her thing."

      "More like the other way around. Anyway, I saw her again a week ago, hanging with some Ixi? Point is, she seems a lot better now." Her sister was silent, save for the brushing of cloth as she folded her arms tightly, almost angrily. The Wocky felt a sharp pit suddenly open in her stomach. "Sorry. I didn't know that would bother you, I thought you'd be gl—"

      "Stay out of it, will you?" snapped Perri. "And don't guilt trip me like that." Throwing her arms to her sides, she walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar. In confusion and frustration, Ellie pushed the end of her pen against her chin, looking up at the ceiling. Once upon a time in a land far away, she too had been like her sister, a furball of immaturity and contradictions. She still was, she admitted, but it was less blatant. It was too easy, she noted, for the faerie Xweetok to push all others to the side for the sake of her own emotions, for the sake of being right—just that once, except it was a million times. And it was just a matter of feeling right, because Ellie knew as well as anyone else that, as a teenager, feeling took priority over being.

      This could be a good opening for the next scene, she observed. Perhaps through the protagonist's interactions—they resembled her a good deal, after all—she could figure out some resolution to the matter. What a way to solve her problems! To project them onto paper, to reason with them through personalities of her own imagination. It did not always work out; her characters, though inspired by friends, enemies, and relatives, were always just a tad askew from reality. But it was better than internalizing it all, and so she made do with it. But never mind that—it was time for her to write.

      Several more hours went by. The pages were empty. She woke up not long after with her head on her notebook, her papers spilled onto the floor. Half-awake and half-upset, she reached for her "inbox"—a simple wire tray filled with all the family mail that concerned her. Her paw hovered over it, then drew away as she caught sight of the top letter: a postcard from her best friend, Mica. It was a letter from a place she really preferred not to be—but it was for the better, and she was getting better, so that was what mattered most. And that left the faerie Wocky alone, because she no longer had her sister and, for the next month or two, she would not have her best friend. She had only a tentative connection with a distant author.

      ***

      Lana Obukovna,

      Hi, I'm Ellie Nativ. Sorry to bother you (again) but I'm that UC Wocky who came up to you at the coffee shop and I was wondering if we could talk. I need your help with writing because other people aren't helping me and I need some sort of solution to this. It's all really messy and I just need someone to talk to about this!! I really appreciate how you write and even if I can never get to that level I think I could learn so much from you.

      Thanks,

      Ellie

      ***

      Lana tapped a shoe against the wire fence in boredom. Her paws were intertwined with the twisting strands of metal as she looked to the side, blinking in approval at the sight of a familiar Wocky. At the gesture Ellie perked up and rushed forward. There was a moment of stillness that followed, seeming to drag on until the click of metal interrupted it. With a forced smile, Lana pulled a can of coffee out of her bag and pushed it into the faerie Wocky's paws. After several sips, Ellie at last spoke, her eyes bright and excited.

      "It's kind of weird, all that's going on, but―I don't know. You don't want to hear about my writing, do you? It's probably so boring to you, so mundane compared to everything you've ever done. I mean, I only do it because I don't have anything better to do. Sometimes I go all, oh, it's my passion, but it might not be. I don't know. Just―I used to write so much more, and now nothing's coming out. Dunno if it's because of my sister pretending I don't even exist. We used to be good friends, you know? I helped her through everything and she did the same for me. Then all this stuff started happening and she didn't even want to hear my voice, like I was suddenly the root of her every problem. And for so long, she was―I don't get it anymore. She never tells me anything and then just lashes out because I can't read her mind."

      A notebook slid out of Lana's bag and into her pale paws.

      "And she used to be my only friend."

      The pen danced across the pages.

      "So what now? All I have left to think about is my writing, how I can improve―because I know I'm a good writer, but everyone has room for improvement. All that jazz. I can work harder than ever and get everything done, write all those stories I've had rustled up in my brain―but they're not coming out. They're just staying there and playing dumb. And that's why I need someone to help me, to tell me what I'm supposed to do to resolve everything. I can't do anything about my sister, but I can do so much about myself."

      The pen came to a halt as Lana debated whether or not to care.

      "Look," the Usul said, "here's a thought." She handed the notebook to Ellie. Spread across two pages was a sketch of a bizarre creature trapped somewhere on the spectrum between Ixi and Pteri. All around it were words, words, words, telling of history and personality. Ellie was not sure what to make of it. "Just now, you gave me a few ideas."

      "W... wow, I―thank y―"

      "Lots of neopets give me inspiration," mumbled Lana. "It's nothing unique. But I feel bad for you. If you want, I can mentor you for a while. We'll see how it works out."

      "You're helping me with my writing."

      "Yes."

      "You're... helping me. Wow." Ellie took several more gulps, then shook her head wildly, energized by caffeine and circumstance. "So―we'll meet at the coffee shop, every Saturday?"

      "We'll meet whenever," Lana said with a shrug. "What matters most is that something comes out of this." With a certain shortness, she plucked the notebook from Ellie's grasp and stuffed it into her bag. She gave a nod and, with no other word, walked away.

The End