“I liked it better the way it was before, that third chapter,” Maria told him.

“It was, perhaps, written better,” Glen replied. “But I had to change it. I have been given a story to tell, and I must be faithful to it. The new one is closer to the true story.”

“What do you mean?” She inquired. “Change it as you will. It is your story, after all.”

“There are many who would believe a story to be so, created by we the crafters and ours to mold as we see fit, bringing to light something entertaining, or enlightening; sobering, or inspiring; exciting, or tragic; and on and on. Others believe that even the stories which are given us, and the ideas and wisdom behind them, are inspired, something divine; perhaps, some are even gifts to us from God himself. I am of this latter school of thought. I tend to think the characters, the plot, the setting, and especially the wisdom in it all, is something gifted to me, and something I must reverently and faithfully record and express. Not many stories are given, and the beautiful ones are fewer still; thus, to be gifted such wisdom is to be called. It is to be tasked with giving flesh to the souls of ideas, these shards of wisdom, which must be cloaked in stories for those with opened eyes to discover, and in so finding, draw meaning and life and wisdom from, which these recipients will spread further.”

Maria was already bored with his response. He tended to be unnecessarily verbose, even when responding to trivialities.

“But don’t worry. The ending is the same as I described to you before. There is hope, at the end of this one.” He smiled and went back to writing, and she returned her gaze to the sea.


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