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esp_dragonv2) wrote2023-11-25 09:31 pm
esp_dragonv2) wrote2023-11-25 09:31 pm
Entry tags:
Trapped
Fandom: Alan Wake
Summary: Alan was trapped the Writer's Room, but he would write his way out. He decided it was time for a change of genre.
Note: I had to write something about the best part of the game, ahaha. :D Had a bunch of fun just going through his stream of consciousness, haha.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Word count: 1,390
Status: Complete
Alan wrote. Trapped in circles within circles, layers over layers that only revealed themselves when he clawed his way though one. He needed to find a way out. Had always been trying to find a way out.
He could try nudging the genre. Or maybe he had already and he'd forgotten? Or that had been in his mind when another idea had taken hold and he'd followed that thread until he found himself back in the Writer's Room again. Back where he started.
He needed to change the story from a horror story. Wrestle it away from the Dark Presence.
See if nudging it back to a different genre would work, just like how it had changed his original story.
Couldn't be a dark detective story. No. That could be twisted back to work for the Dark Presence. Something else. Something unexpected.
Something bright. Not too bright that the Dark Presence would immediately reject it. It had wisened up since the first time.
...A musical?
* * *
Alan had never written a musical before. He'd attempted poems to try and get through the writer's block and only got a few lines in before ripping the piece of paper up.
There was a reason why he was a novelist, not a poet. He knew what worked for him.
Which was why this might work.
* * *
Alan came to in the Writer's Room like he always did. How much time had passed? What had he done? The questions circled in his head and he looked for what was different, a clue what he'd tried. What had failed.
A new stack of papers next to him. A list. Columns of lists.
A lot of the words were scratched out, other words circled and arrows pointed to other columns. He couldn't read most of them, but there were a few that were untouched.
Jumbles of words he couldn't make sense of, couldn't group together or see why he'd...
They were words he'd rhymed. Tried to.
He hadn't been successful, but he could see how some could be grouped together, what could happen in the musical.
It was a start.
* * *
Alan moved around the Writer's Room, flailing his arms in what could have been called a dance. Alice certainly wouldn't have called it that, laughing at him early on in their relationship, until they started dancing together.
No, couldn't do a duo dancing. Not for this. Had to be something he could do alone. With other people, but not together.
He slammed his hip into the desk, the crash sounding so loud when he was used to only the clack of keys for company.
A lot of space would be needed for the stage.
* * *
He was trying to escape. To do that he had to finish his novel in a way that wouldn't also release the Dark Presence.
Basic.
Too basic.
The story was only as good as the set up that allowed for the climax to feel earned, to make sense.
He needed a wider scope, better worldbuilding, something else to come in.
Bigger, like the Dark Presence was doing. Had done.
Not just one song about one thing.
About everything that had happened.
Had he thought this before? Had he done this before? More notes next to him, but he didn't have the time to read them, the idea seizing him like a wave.
He would ride it out. See where it took him.
* * *
How was he supposed to choreograph dancing if he knew a total of three dance moves?
He'd make it up. Like he always did in here. There were no editors in the Dark Place. Not ones he trusted.
It didn't have to be good. Not yet. Just get something down that the Dark Presence would use.
Spinning added flair to a dance, didn't it?
He would add that in.
* * *
Who was meant to sing it? He needed to know the sound of the song. A genre within a genre. Alan stared at the piece of paper in front of him.
Faces rose into his mind. The Anderson brothers wouldn't look like that now. He barely remembered what they sounded like, an echo of a ripple in his mind.
Were they even still-?
He had to try.
And hope they were willing to play a new part in his story.
* * *
Click click-click.
One of the typewriter keys was sticking. Alan was sure of it. He'd pressed the keys for years now (Years? Felt like it. ...Decades? It was hard to tell time here. No light, no clock. Did time even exist here?) and it moved like the first time he'd sat at the desk.
Was it made of the same stuff as what was in the Dark Place? What was the Dark Place made of? Shadows? Water? Or just trapped under water?
He squinted at the typewriter. The keys were unworn after all this time too.
Because they didn't physically exist?
No, it had to be real, or else he wouldn't have found the manuscript pages. Unless that was the Dark Place making real his writing once he was finished.
Or was it a new typewriter every time he came to again, the entire room recreated?
Click click click.
The key wasn't sticky anymore!
...What was he doing again...?
* * *
Alan hadn't done stage directing before, wasn't sure how the scenes should change.
The only experience he had was the scripts of the films he'd rejected.
He exhaled, scrunching his eyes at the sudden headache that whistled in on all sides. Had he read them? Or was that from the Dark Presence's edits?
He remembered something though, so he would use that.
Scenes dropping into nothing made sense. He'd seen it happen.
* * *
He glared at the words that swam in front of his eyes.
He had words, but he couldn't figure out the rhythm.
What was he doing? He couldn't write songs. Had never finished one poem. The medium was too constrained, even for his own style of writing.
He didn't have the Anderson's knack for songwriting, the ebb and flow they commanded.
He could barely remember their voices. Their faces. Anyone's faces for that matter. Not even his own, though he could feel the itch of a beard.
Time had passed?
The only face he could picture was Alice's.
He had done this for her.
Now he had to get out to see her again. See the sun again...
* * *
Alan needed a rubber duck.
Anything really.
He'd never actually used a rubber duck when he could talk at Alice whilst she worked on her photos, or while she took his photos, only closing his mouth when she had set up the shot.
Not until the block, anyway. Then he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't get anything out.
It had worked best when he said what he was trying to figure out his problem out loud, but he didn't want to give the Dark Presence a hint about what he was writing.
The Dark Presence would already know, turning the pages he'd written real.
Was it really paying attention to him all the time?
If he was its main ticket out of here, probably.
Its tendrils were already in his brain, compelling him to write, twisting his words to become what it wanted, making him forget when he strayed too far.
Was remembering this much a sign he was doing the Dark Presence's bidding?
Couldn't get too distracted. He had to keep writing.
He looked around the room, trying to find anything else he could talk at.
There. Above him. The owl.
That would do.
* * *
The Old Gods of Asgard seemed to stay within his story.
It wasn't right. Off. There needed to be more. More to balance out the darker turn the Dark Presence had made.
He needed to be part of it.
But how...?
Flickers of previous iterations, different versions of trying to escape that he still remembered, that the Dark Presence had allowed.
Door.
The TV show.
The musical through an interview? To bring in ratings?
Now he really had to figure out the dance choreography.
He would be able to do it. He had to.
Summary: Alan was trapped the Writer's Room, but he would write his way out. He decided it was time for a change of genre.
Note: I had to write something about the best part of the game, ahaha. :D Had a bunch of fun just going through his stream of consciousness, haha.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Word count: 1,390
Status: Complete
Alan wrote. Trapped in circles within circles, layers over layers that only revealed themselves when he clawed his way though one. He needed to find a way out. Had always been trying to find a way out.
He could try nudging the genre. Or maybe he had already and he'd forgotten? Or that had been in his mind when another idea had taken hold and he'd followed that thread until he found himself back in the Writer's Room again. Back where he started.
He needed to change the story from a horror story. Wrestle it away from the Dark Presence.
See if nudging it back to a different genre would work, just like how it had changed his original story.
Couldn't be a dark detective story. No. That could be twisted back to work for the Dark Presence. Something else. Something unexpected.
Something bright. Not too bright that the Dark Presence would immediately reject it. It had wisened up since the first time.
...A musical?
Alan had never written a musical before. He'd attempted poems to try and get through the writer's block and only got a few lines in before ripping the piece of paper up.
There was a reason why he was a novelist, not a poet. He knew what worked for him.
Which was why this might work.
Alan came to in the Writer's Room like he always did. How much time had passed? What had he done? The questions circled in his head and he looked for what was different, a clue what he'd tried. What had failed.
A new stack of papers next to him. A list. Columns of lists.
A lot of the words were scratched out, other words circled and arrows pointed to other columns. He couldn't read most of them, but there were a few that were untouched.
Jumbles of words he couldn't make sense of, couldn't group together or see why he'd...
They were words he'd rhymed. Tried to.
He hadn't been successful, but he could see how some could be grouped together, what could happen in the musical.
It was a start.
Alan moved around the Writer's Room, flailing his arms in what could have been called a dance. Alice certainly wouldn't have called it that, laughing at him early on in their relationship, until they started dancing together.
No, couldn't do a duo dancing. Not for this. Had to be something he could do alone. With other people, but not together.
He slammed his hip into the desk, the crash sounding so loud when he was used to only the clack of keys for company.
A lot of space would be needed for the stage.
He was trying to escape. To do that he had to finish his novel in a way that wouldn't also release the Dark Presence.
Basic.
Too basic.
The story was only as good as the set up that allowed for the climax to feel earned, to make sense.
He needed a wider scope, better worldbuilding, something else to come in.
Bigger, like the Dark Presence was doing. Had done.
Not just one song about one thing.
About everything that had happened.
Had he thought this before? Had he done this before? More notes next to him, but he didn't have the time to read them, the idea seizing him like a wave.
He would ride it out. See where it took him.
How was he supposed to choreograph dancing if he knew a total of three dance moves?
He'd make it up. Like he always did in here. There were no editors in the Dark Place. Not ones he trusted.
It didn't have to be good. Not yet. Just get something down that the Dark Presence would use.
Spinning added flair to a dance, didn't it?
He would add that in.
Who was meant to sing it? He needed to know the sound of the song. A genre within a genre. Alan stared at the piece of paper in front of him.
Faces rose into his mind. The Anderson brothers wouldn't look like that now. He barely remembered what they sounded like, an echo of a ripple in his mind.
Were they even still-?
He had to try.
And hope they were willing to play a new part in his story.
Click click-click.
One of the typewriter keys was sticking. Alan was sure of it. He'd pressed the keys for years now (Years? Felt like it. ...Decades? It was hard to tell time here. No light, no clock. Did time even exist here?) and it moved like the first time he'd sat at the desk.
Was it made of the same stuff as what was in the Dark Place? What was the Dark Place made of? Shadows? Water? Or just trapped under water?
He squinted at the typewriter. The keys were unworn after all this time too.
Because they didn't physically exist?
No, it had to be real, or else he wouldn't have found the manuscript pages. Unless that was the Dark Place making real his writing once he was finished.
Or was it a new typewriter every time he came to again, the entire room recreated?
Click click click.
The key wasn't sticky anymore!
...What was he doing again...?
Alan hadn't done stage directing before, wasn't sure how the scenes should change.
The only experience he had was the scripts of the films he'd rejected.
He exhaled, scrunching his eyes at the sudden headache that whistled in on all sides. Had he read them? Or was that from the Dark Presence's edits?
He remembered something though, so he would use that.
Scenes dropping into nothing made sense. He'd seen it happen.
He glared at the words that swam in front of his eyes.
He had words, but he couldn't figure out the rhythm.
What was he doing? He couldn't write songs. Had never finished one poem. The medium was too constrained, even for his own style of writing.
He didn't have the Anderson's knack for songwriting, the ebb and flow they commanded.
He could barely remember their voices. Their faces. Anyone's faces for that matter. Not even his own, though he could feel the itch of a beard.
Time had passed?
The only face he could picture was Alice's.
He had done this for her.
Now he had to get out to see her again. See the sun again...
Alan needed a rubber duck.
Anything really.
He'd never actually used a rubber duck when he could talk at Alice whilst she worked on her photos, or while she took his photos, only closing his mouth when she had set up the shot.
Not until the block, anyway. Then he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't get anything out.
It had worked best when he said what he was trying to figure out his problem out loud, but he didn't want to give the Dark Presence a hint about what he was writing.
The Dark Presence would already know, turning the pages he'd written real.
Was it really paying attention to him all the time?
If he was its main ticket out of here, probably.
Its tendrils were already in his brain, compelling him to write, twisting his words to become what it wanted, making him forget when he strayed too far.
Was remembering this much a sign he was doing the Dark Presence's bidding?
Couldn't get too distracted. He had to keep writing.
He looked around the room, trying to find anything else he could talk at.
There. Above him. The owl.
That would do.
The Old Gods of Asgard seemed to stay within his story.
It wasn't right. Off. There needed to be more. More to balance out the darker turn the Dark Presence had made.
He needed to be part of it.
But how...?
Flickers of previous iterations, different versions of trying to escape that he still remembered, that the Dark Presence had allowed.
Door.
The TV show.
The musical through an interview? To bring in ratings?
Now he really had to figure out the dance choreography.
He would be able to do it. He had to.