Bring on the Leisure!: Prologue (Patreon)

Okay, time to get some outside feedback on the next project! I'll post prologue through chapter 3 today. Let me know what you think~

(Also, funny to me that BotL looks close to LoRG backward. Kinda)

ToC: https://www.patreon.com/posts/98777693

***Author Note: There is a small peak at what it's like to be a webnovel author in the Prologue. And definitely, it can be very emotionally exhausting to produce and be judged. But this is not a self-insert for me, just a background I'm very familiar with, to create the sort of voice I want for this story.***

----

I have a confession.

Okay Tallum, take a breath. If you don’t say it now, you’ll never get the chance.

Since the first effortless release of sinking into a fantasy novel, I have been addicted to other worlds.

Not addicted in a dangerous way that it interferes with my daily life— although, yes, I’ve skipped dinners, trivia nights, birthdays, etc. while in the throes of a compelling narrative. Minor social responsibilities, really.

Just that… to me, nothing rivaled the high of shedding my skin and sinking into a book.

I wasn’t anxious, I wasn’t frustrated, I wasn’t impatient. I was just there. I lived in those moments.

I lived outside of myself, where I could see the characters and motivations on the pages and not feel out of my depth. Not be confused. Not feel like an outsider. So I wanted more.

Eventually, I stumbled into niche corners of the internet and sank into the wild expanse of web novels. Here my hunger for more content could be more than satisfied. But as I continued to read… I develop a certain feeling.

To be alive is to be burdened by these feelings.

Reading a scene where an earlier detail that had been treated as pivotal was now forgotten, I could only sigh. It became a small bit of feed for the growing toddler of negative emotion.

I’d shake my head when a new character behaved like a caricature of a villain, rather than a person. This would be a larger and more satisfying meal for the adolescent negativity.

I’d roll my eyes when a side-character of the opposite sex arrived and they instantly became infatuated with the main character. After a veritable banquet of fuel, this almost adult feeling let out a contented gurgle.

Not that I hated the lack of realism in web novels, per se. Simply…

None of the benefits received by the main character felt earned. The progression might be glittering and festooned with cool names, but it was empty. So when I had thoroughly familiarized myself with the genre, I expanded from simply reading into the domain of writing my own web novels.

That negative feeling stretched out its long fingers and reached for control.

See, therapist? Look at how I’m channeling my negativity into positive creative outcomes? Who even needs mindfulness?

…Actually, let’s not talk about my former therapist yet. I’ll just get mad.

I didn’t want to make anything fancy, I simply wanted a grounded web novel, where it was possible for the readers to feel the effort the main character put into his growth.

Ahem.

Obviously, as I began to write I realized how difficult it was to create the texture of realism I wished for in webnovels. Always easier to be a critic than a creator. So I labored in near anonymity as I started, building a machine in my mind to help me weave a skin others could inhabit. Cog by cog, brass flywheel by lever, I made a clockwork masterpiece capable of birthing worlds.

Certain… not-worth-naming mental-health presences in my life hated when I talked about the machine. Referred to it as a ‘problematic self-ideology’. But when my first major arc ended with a masterful and intricate finale and my story exploded in popularity… ahhh, there really aren’t words to describe the feeling of contentment.

The machine hummed in warm satisfaction as it disengaged. Unrelated, there were some other events that caused me to be stricken by several feelings at once. Some high profile, abrupt absences in my immediate family left me…

Hollow.

As always, I sought to escape my own feeling by treading through other worlds.

A secondary byproduct of the machine was discovered; while in its throes, when the chaos of life became as clinical and mechanical as a carnival plinko-board. Predictably eased diagnosed anxiety and rendered it inert. I felt insulated from the ache of these persistent feelings.

So I began to keep the clockwork machine running all the time. Writing became more than just a hobby, it became a survival mechanism.

More very healthy emotional channeling.

I set my eyes on a higher prize to busy myself. A longer, more masterful, more real second arc. I scrapped my machine, rebuilt it from the ground up, and prepared for my near-inevitable road to a webnovel literary classic.

I might have gotten a bit ahead of myself.

Because now most readers couldn’t just binge through all the seeding scenes to reach the point where everything came together, the comments on my story soured. As it turned out… my realistically long training arcs, including breaks to allow the muscles to heal and injuries, did not capture the hearts of my readers.

[seriously, another fucking injury?!?]

[Dropping brick-dumb MC]

[I actually hav a cousin who is physical therapist. This weight lifting is both boring and shit]

[.5 stars wish i could give less]

Not every comment was negative. I had a very solid fan base that appreciated the grounded interactions of the characters, how much showing and not telling went into the world-building, and the intuitive magic system. They could see the seeds being planted, and trusted I would bring everything around in another dramatic finale. And I knew that those voices were the ones I should listen to. These readers were loyal, a quality I prize above all others. They continued to read my story and defend me in the comments. However…

[Next-level shit-tier story]

Each new notification would be seared into my eyes. The machine in me churned, souring the air in my apartment with the pollution of stress.

I couldn’t stop obsessing over the bad comments. Even when I should be writing my careful and well-grounded chapters for those readers who appreciated me, I ended up arguing anonymously on posts regarding my story. I cannot deny this was immature of me. But I wanted to reach out through the internet and strangle these people!

How can they not appreciate how much effort I’ve poured into this other world!? Didn’t they understand that their theories were groundless and as long as they possessed even a modicum of patience, all would become clear?

Didn’t they understand they were reading wrong?

“Ghk-!”

In the end, I grew agitated even with the machine active all the time. As I lay in bed at night, I watched paranoia seeping in from the ceiling and dripping down my walls.  I felt panic while writing and anxiety while not writing. I let dirty dishes pile up in my sink. When I reread my daily writing, I found the scenes boring and lifeless. No wonder the readers were becoming so misled. I couldn’t even figure out how to advance the plot.

I started cranking the machine harder. I wanted to fix myself by squeezing my behavior into proper shape.

Hah~ don’t judge me.

Chapter posts became more infrequent. My diet had never been the best and I had fallen off on my daily jogs. I sat in a dark room with only the illumination of my computer screen. On the floor next to me were a stack of black plastic frozen dinner containers, stacked more easily once their insides had been scooped out.

This might come as a shock to you, but my bloodshot eyes were not a sign of zeal. Stubbornly sitting in front of the screen and grinding my teeth was not healthy. Ill will and stubbornness can only sustain you for so long.

That was how I died.

My face hit the keyboard, my cheek too flabby to properly type out the word ‘fuck’ that dominated my thoughts.

A brain aneurysm. Can you see me now, collapsed forward on the keyboard, drool coming out of my mouth?

Not the sort of dignified figure I thought I would be in death at all. Where were the posthumous honors for how I changed the world via cool fantasy characters?

Tsk, I hate it when my therapist is right about lifestyle choices… My eyelashes fluttered. Ah, at the very least, I won’t need to write the next chapter…

That thought cut through the pain and panic. What the hell: when did the writing stop being fun?

As my brain turned foggy, I wondered if the negative comments were responsible. More accurately, my stubborn response to them, my obsessions, my sacrifice of basic rules of diet and hygiene, etc. I had no special medical knowledge, so it seemed plausible to me. Right at the last second before my consciousness faded, I considered cursing those negative commenters. Perhaps if my curse was strong enough, I could linger on Earth and haunt them.

Not to brag, but I, as a poltergeist, could really fuck up someone’s white-picket-fence life.

All of that ill-will I had clung to curled inside me; I prepared to unleash my curse. But with my death imminent, the machine ceased its toil. Without the screening of its hum, I stared in the face of those Feelings I had tried to avoid for so long. My parents had died. I was alone, in so many ways.

I think I cried, but it was hard to tell with the approaching oblivion.

The ill-will dissipated I had to acknowledge another truth: Feelings don’t vanish just because you distract yourself from them. And submerged in those feelings like arctic ocean water, it became clear the cause of my death wasn’t the negative comments, wasn’t the stress, wasn’t the inconsistent diet.

It had been the quiet grief, tainting every aspect of my life as I left it unaddressed.

I sighed as I died. I tightened too much, huh? To keep everything in, to keep myself from coming to pieces. The machine… you can’t live as a machine, even if it hurts less.

If I get a next life… I hope to live… No, I swear I will live more freely…

Mom… dad… ah fuck, can I get some privacy for this?!

Weirdly, I felt like some being was watching me. A gaze peered out of the encroaching darkness. Or perhaps all of that darkness was just the pupil of a massive eye. One so large I couldn’t see its limits.

Ah, but I’m dying, right? I’m probably just grasping at meaning, hoping I’m being watched. Let’s just get on with it.

Even though it’s hard. Even though being vulnerable sucks. I won’t ever let my feelings go unheard, simply because I left them unsaid.

I miss you. I love you.

My eyes closed. Okay, I’m finished. Take me oblivion.

Welcome, Traveler, to the afterlife. You have Awakened. Determining destination…

“Wait, seriously?!?”