TeenageTells- Writing A Story From Start To Finish

I'm writing a new passion project, when I was meant to be taking a short break from writing. Lovely. But here is the start of Rebel Land (temporary title).

If you're not here for some fun, some rule-breaking or some chaos, then don't read this. Otherwise, enjoy.

In a world of superficial beliefs and societal norms, we need to find a way to break free; become true rulers of our own lives. 

There is not only one way to achieve this. My way is to write a story with 0 acts, because acts are a societal construct. Like not wearing your shorts because they’re too colourful. Or small talk, which is just a massive waste of time. Shaving as a woman. I don’t want to! Not talking about our periods (why?). Being judged for trying to build a future as a teenager. Or not eating pasta for breakfast. I love pasta! It’s a great breakfast food, and you can’t convince me otherwise. 

Back to the point. 

Why should we be limited by an inciting incident, building tension, a climax and either (ooh, scandalous, three options) a happy ending, a neutral ending or a tragic ending? Why should I write a book in the same way everyone else does? At the same age, in the same programs - which never ever, ever work - for barely any profit? 

Acts are so been-there-done-that-got-the-t-shirt. What if I have 0? What if my cover was in mirror image? What if my name was written in Atbash cipher? (Yes, I did just have to Google what it was called. So what? Most people reading this didn’t know until they had to inevitably Google it.) What if I didn’t have to use em-dashes instead of regular ones? Let me use my normal dashes! And brackets! Since when are brackets wrong? 

Now look upon a story which knows no rules. My little corner of the world. 

Act 0 

Brunhildr Puissant Eximious the Demurest AKA Brunhildr Puissant Eximious The Second, was - wait. 

Nobody in the history of anything was called Brunhildr Puissant Eximious, let only somebody was called Brunhild Puissant Eximious and decided to call their child the same thing. Or grandchild. Whatever. That’d be crazy! 

Fact-check: Brunhildr Puissant Eximious The Second’s mother just wanted to call her Brunhildr Puissant Eximious The Second. Seriously? The Second is actually part of her name? 

“No need to rub it in my face!” 

Brunhildr Puissant Eximious The Second? Is that you? 

“Stop calling me that! I’m Bunny. Just Bunny. Well, you can keep the Demurest part, if you’re desperate. That’s true. Now go back to my story! You’re getting distracted.” 

Pardon me. 

Bunny the Demurest was cooking. As much as one could without turning on the oven. One could argue Bunny could use the stove instead, but it was wrecked from the peanut butter jar that dropped on it last week. And she has no microwave. She believes they are dangerous, and one day will lead to her death if she uses them too often (but for some reason, it doesn’t count when she uses somebody else's. Funny) because of the rays coming out of it.  

So, what was she using? An ancient skillet, forged of magical silver which could knock out an enemy with a single hit. It was her great, great, great, [insert about 100 greats] grandmother’s, and had been passed down from generation to generation, helping to save the world, whenever it was in need, and would eventually help one of their bloodline to start a new world after the end. 

For the average human, it was heavy being half her weight. For Bunny, half-Elf and half-Polish, she could lift it as easily as... there’s no bar to measure it to. She hasn’t been to the gym in ever, so my best estimate would be a pillow? A baby? How much does a baby weigh? Never mind. 

And the magical skillet contained none other than a birthday cake. A cold birthday cake. It’s nobody’s birthday. Bunny has never met anyone, from her knowledge, who has their birthday in November.  

“All the plates are dirty.” Bunny muffles with a mouthful of icing, because that is the best part, and she is actively scraping it off systematically, leaving the actual Victoria sponge bare like a baby’s bottom. 

“Ew! Why would you write that? And what’s your obsession with babies? Don’t you be fore-whatnotting something.” She swallows loudly. 

Foreshadowing? 

“Yes!” 

Me? Never! That is only what proper writers do. If I ever foreshadow, that’s an accident. I’d have to know the ending when I’m starting. 

“Good. Now carry on. And let me eat my cake in peace.” 

You mean your icing? 

“I’ll eat the cake eventually. Maybe tomorrow. What day is it?” 

Tuesday. You have school. 

“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her eyes. 

You’ll forget! And she’s distracted. Poor cake. I would have happily eaten the rest. Now Bunny is not getting ready for school, despite having an exam this afternoon. You know, I hope most sixth formers are more responsible than her. Although, that’s not too hard. 

Ah! Back to the fantasy-esque description. 

Bunny sat on the counter in just her sleeping top - which used to say something along the lines of running community 1976 but now was just c, what could be a 3 or a B and 6 - and period underwear, because ‘pyjamas are overrated’. Her blond hair was hidden beneath what she thinks is her brother’s beanie, but you can never be sure when there’s people moving in and out of the house all the time. It was grey, and that’s it. Boring. 

It hid her gently pointy ears, and kept them warm even as the November whisper of a breeze came in through the open bathroom window. Her skin was paler than the Victoria sponge, and the bags under her eyes matched her beanie. 

“Rude.” 

She jumped down from the counter, her bare feet meeting the marble floor and sending a shiver up her spine. “I need lunch? I think. Today’s...” 

Tuesday. 

“Pop-tart day!” Bunny pulled the pack from the sculpted mahogany cupboard, which had doors with cupids on them, staring at her, as if they could leave the wood and attack. Knowing this massive mansion of a house, they probably could. 

Surprise, surprise, if you’d have looked, there’d not be a single relatively healthy thing to be found in the afore mentioned cupboard. Nor in the fridge. Unless you count the pickles she got from her grandma last time she came to visit. Oh. That was a year ago. Those pickles belong in a museum, not anyone’s digestive system. 

“I need toaster. To cook food. Where is toaster?” Bending almost in half, she glances under the small gap beneath the kitchen appliances, shuffling along slowly, careful to not miss a single spot. “Hello, toaster? Where are you? Dear toaster, come out, come out, wherever you are.” Her singsong voice elicited a gentle squeak from behind the curtains. 

“Aha!” She pulled them apart, and a small dragon dropped to the floor, rolling for a moment before turning around to gaze at Bunny. “What are you doing there, toaster? I told you, if you set them on fire, you’re going to have to find the money to repair them. Legally.” 

toaster (yes, that’s meant to be a lowercase. He’s very picky about his name staying lowercase, even at the start of a sentence. I tried to explain capitalisation, I promise. If at any point it is not, please let me know. He’ll set my hair on fire again!) spat a small ball of ash onto the floor, which a moment later he put out with a tap of his paw. When he sits on the floor like that, like an innocent puppy who had been told to sit, it’s hard to be mad at him. He's so cute! 

His scales are black with detailed neon pink highlights around the edge of each individual one, his eyes a matching pink. At the yearly dragon rating contest, he would win if there was a category for cuteness. But most dragons who are soul-bound to humans are massive and deep blue, so would trump him in any other category. 

Who cares? He’s the cutest! I just want to hug him! 

Bunny spots the rip running all the way up the curtain, which had somehow been hidden a moment ago by how it was arranged, but then the wind had shifted. 

“We’re going to have a talk later.”

toaster blows a small stream of flames towards the pop-tarts, clearly a peace offering. Bunny almost gives in. They’re - for lack of a better word - perfectly toasty. “I love you too.” she breathes. “Now. School.”

She dresses with as much reluctance she could muster; putting her pants on at the speed of a snail and wiggling her shoes on to the sound of some K-pop. Most people say she’s just following trends for listening to K-pop, but she enjoys it.

The cultural mix, words in languages she doesn’t understand, the beat, and the high note currently shaking her speakers. About to be broken by the synth beat any moment....

It never comes.

Hope you enjoyed this! See you next week, where we explore creativity up close.