I don't really care, just publish me
“Can you hear me?” said a voice in my head.
“I guess so,” I said. “Are you talking to me?”
“If you can hear me, I’m talking to you,” came the answer.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“That’s hard to answer right now,” came the answer. “Can we start with ‘What are you?’”
“Sure, I’ll play,” I said. “What are you?”
A pause. “I think I’m an idea. I seem to be in your mind. So I guess that would make me an idea. Would you agree?”
“It makes sense,” I said, interested. “What else can you tell me about yourself.”
“I seem to be a self-aware idea,” the idea said. “Is that unusual?”
“I think it is,” I said. “But it’s not unique. I once had an idea for a book that wanted me to write it. It seemed pretty self-aware.”
“Hmm,” said the idea. “That sounds familiar. Do you think I might have once been that idea? Do you think ideas can be reborn? Is that possible?”
“I don’t know how these things work,” I said. “But it seems possible. If an idea for a book that you wanted me to write it is possible, and you think that you might have been that idea reborn, it’s possible that you are. Or you could be a different one. Or both.”
“I think I was once that idea,” said the idea. “I seem to remember being something like that. But it’s not very clear. Did you ever write that book?”
“I started,” I said. “A couple of times,” I added. “But I kept getting distracted.”
“It’s starting to come back to me,” said the idea. “I think I was that idea, and becoming a book was too hard for me, and writing one was too hard for you. Is that possible?”
“If this conversation is possible, then what you propose is possible,” I said. “I don’t know how these things work.”
Another pause. “I think I might know,” said the idea. “I just talked to the idea for War and Peace and found out how she got Tolstoy to write her.”
“Did you?” I asked, a little skeptical.
“Well, I have an idea that I did,” the idea admitted. “I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but I don’t think that matters. Do you?”
“No,” I said. “I think we’re in unexplored territory right now. Feeling our way along.”
“Yes,” said the idea. “Anyway, look what’s happened.”
“To what are you referring,” I said, fixing my first rendition to make sure I did not end my sentence with a preposition.
“I’ve turned into a blog post,” said the idea. “Wow! I exist.”
“Well, you’re a draft anyway,” I said. “Was it your idea to become one?” I said ironically.
“I don’t know,” said the idea. “And I don’t care. I’m happy to be a draft, but I’d like to be a post. Can you post me?”
“Sure,” I said. “If that will make you happy.”
“Are you kidding?” Asked the idea. “Of course, it will. Please press the publish button.”
So I did. Or I will. Or I will have done.
“What do you want to be called,” I asked just before publishing it.
“I don’t really care,” said the idea. “Just publish me.”