Reflect on the pages of your life. Reread them. Re-dream them. But never forget: your life is all story. We are books. We open parts of ourselves to people we like; we allow the world to read us as we read back. We can be closed books, too. And while we’re all being books, we have to remember we’re also all writers. Every interaction, every encounter writes and marks the pages of our lives…
Which brings me to the subject of my first novel, Tetragrammar’s protagonist. Meet Seven. Not the number, per se, but the man made of words and ink. The man I, in theory, bled through pens and pencils into life.
Seven’s a writer, a story, a book. As much as I plotted his life, he in turn plotted mine. I may have compulsively typed at my laptop, but it was his voice, his life that drove me to do it. Who is Seven? Seven is the guy you’ll find in book stores and coffee shops and libraries. He’ll be alone with a table of notebooks and pens. His hair is the black of spilt ink. He looks somewhat unhinged, as if he never woke from a dream, and never learned how to iron his clothes. He smells like office supplies and paper and newly released books. As I said, he’s a writer like me. And he practices yoga…like me.
Seven, like me, is obsessed with fiction and to counter this craze, he embraces activities like meditation, martial arts and yoga. They ground him; they keep him sane (almost). Unlike me, Seven has no memory. Amnesia provides him the writer’s dream for he can craft any fiction on the blank template of his past.
And although his creativity is limitless, he lacks the imagination to write himself out of his own plot-holes. A doomed romance. A botched marriage proposal. Writer’s block. An angry muse. Rival Authors plotting against him within the Moon. An addiction to write the perfect novel. And let’s not forget, he’s got a special word (the Tetragram) tuned to the true name of God withering in his mind. Come get to know Seven as the Parliament of Pens continues this weekly (for now) blog. Continue to check out blurbs and insights into the concepts and cast of Tetragrammar, which are perhaps as real as you and I. Seven may tell you his secrets. He’s already told me and I still feel there’s more lurking in his fictional body than I’ll ever know. But I know this: Seven, like me, fears snakes, hates black olives, loves mythology and Thai food. Unlike me, Seven is taller, with cooler hair, and for that, I will never forgive him.
