The Wishing Well Warning

To whoever's reading this —

STAY AWAY FROM THE WISHING WELL.

I don't know how much time I have left. I don't even know if I'll be able to finish this letter. So right from the get-go, I need to warn you about the dangers of dropping a coin and making a wish in that well, because you absolutely don't want it coming true. That well targets the desperate. It targets anyone willing to do anything to make their wish come true.

I know it so clearly now. I didn't, at first. But I know now that it targeted me specifically. It saw my desperation, my bitterness, my wretched need for validation as a writer.

And now, tonight, it's coming for me. And if you don't stay away like I didn't, it'll come for you, too.

I graduated from Neoschool a bright young Kacheek, proudly displaying my Creative Writing degree on a wall frame for anyone to see it. My teachers had all told me the same thing, that I was going to hit it big. My books were going to sell out at Brightvale Books, at the Magical Bookshop, and even at Kreludor Books. My ego went to my head — I was convinced, beyond any doubt, that I had what it took to make it.

And so, I began writing. I was too high on my supply. I didn't need an agent, I told myself. They would just soften my edges, forcing me to make my writing safer and more digestible for a marketable audience. I didn't need an editor, either. They would just force me to do the exact same thing. They were shills to the literary world, conformists in a medium that demanded breaking barriers.

What a fool I was.

My first book couldn't sell anywhere. I reached out to so many publications, but nobody wanted to take a chance on it. It was bad. Writing this now, looking back, it was bad. But at the time, I thought it was brilliant. I thought it would bring me success. I couldn't understand why no publisher wanted to buy it, and I found myself at a dead end until I had a liquid lunch with an ex-classmate of mine who told me, "Maybe you should start small."

"Start small?" I responded.

"You know, like flash fiction or a short story," she said as she sipped on her Coffee and Marshmallows. "The Neopian Times accepts short stories every week from everyone. Maybe you should start there!"

Starting small sounded like surrender. But this friend of mine had been published at the Times multiple times, and while they were articles, the fact that she could call herself a published writer while I couldn't secretly made me green with envy. Combine that with the pain of rejection I had gotten from all of Neopia's publishing houses, and I found myself at the edge of the Wishing Well after that meet-up, holding a coin in my hand, whispering a wish over and over.

"I wish to get published in the Neopian Times," I said. "I wish to get published in the Neopian Times."

Now, whoever's reading this, I never once believed in the Wishing Well before I dropped this coin into it. Yes, in a world filled with faeries and shop wizards, this disbelief seems silly, but I always thought the Well was a sneaky way for whoever built it to get free money from anyone foolish enough to drop Neopoints into it.

But it was only one coin. That was what I thought at the time, anyway. I didn't realize how much one coin would change my whole life.

That night, something possessed me when I stepped into my one-bedroom apartment. It was like my hands and feet had a mind of their own. I suddenly found myself walking to my laptop, opening my document application, and typing away like nobody's business. I couldn't conjure a single idea for a short story on my walk home, but once I got typing, it was like I had an entire story just ready to be transcribed.

I stared hypnotized at the computer screen as I read every word that seemed to have been typed by my own hands, but not ones that my eyes recognized.

It was brilliant.

You know that, reader. If you're reading this letter, you must know who I am. You know my short story, The Intense Yet Gentle Waves, was one of the Neopian Times' most talked about stories of the year. I couldn't have predicted that at the time, but I did know it was good. The story was damn good. The story was better than my book.

And I had written it. That's what I told myself at the time. Of course, I'd written it. I'd typed it out with my own hands. I saw it happen. I felt it happen. And when I submitted it to the Neopian Times, they immediately accepted it for publication, and when that story got rave reviews from readers, they called me and repeated to me three special words: "We want more."

But I couldn't write anything.

I stared at the laptop screen, unable to come up with anything worth writing. Anything that matched the story I had written, or rather, transcribed. I had to admit it to myself — I didn't write that story. The Well did. I had made a wish and it had come true, and if I wanted another story published, I had to make another wish.

And so, that's exactly what I did. I went out the next day and dropped another coin into the Wishing Well, this time whispering:

"I wish to get published again in the Neopian Times."

And that night, it possessed me again like it did before.

My hands, typing out words that my mind wasn't thinking of. My eyes, reading a story on the screen that I played no part in thinking up. If you're following along, you know which story I'm talking about: One Step Away From Everything.

The second story was another runaway success. Such a success that I had gotten fan mail. Three, to be exact. I had never gotten fan mail ever before in my life, and now here they were in my mailbox, from lands I had never been to: Terror Mountain, Shenkuu, and Faerieland. I had fans, people who read not one but two of my stories, and according to the letters, wanted more.

It was incredible. It was euphoric. It was also nerve-wracking like nothing else.

The Neopian Times called me the next week, ecstatic to share the news about the response to One Step Away From Everything and two more bits of good news:

They wanted a third story.

And if this third story was any good, they wanted to give me a book deal.

You can bet I felt an unbearable amount of pressure when I received this news. I thought about writing the third story on my own. To prove to myself that I earned that book deal. And I tried to, at first. I really did.

But it was such a big deal. I couldn't risk it, not when I had so much on the line. The book, I told myself. The book is when I'll start writing on my own again. And so I did what I did the last two times I "wrote" a story.

I went to the Wishing Well and made a wish.

But something was different this time around. It didn't happen the way it happened the last two nights. As soon as I heard the splash of the coin hitting the water in the well, a voice from behind me whispered in my ear, "The coins aren't enough anymore."

I turned around, but there was nobody there.

And the next thing I knew, I had completely blacked out.

I woke up the next morning to a phone call. I don't know how I got back home, but I clearly had as I was on my bed when I opened my eyes. The ringing of the phone felt like daggers to my ears — it felt like I had spent the entire night drinking. In my state of a throbbing headache, I picked up the phone and placed it just a few inches away from my ear. "Yes?"

"Jake, it's Deborah!" the voice on the other end of the phone replied. "We loved, loved, loved your story! It's the best one yet! We've all decided to give you free rein on your book. Write whatever you want and have a first draft ready by the end of September. We can't wait to read it!"

I jolted myself up.

I had written a story?

I, in fact, had. Or at least, a story was sent from my e-mail account the previous night. I didn't remember writing it at all. I didn't remember opening the writing app or even turning on my laptop. And yet, there it was in my sent folder, with a reply from the Neopian Times detailing the payments for my book deal and when I was expected to give updates and a draft.

The Mynci's Paw Curls.

That was the title of the story.

Later that day, my Wocky neighbor, who never spoke to me, did. "Did you forget your keys last night, neighbor?"

I bobbed my head back. "Keys?"

"I saw you break into your own home by jamming open a window last night," he said. "I figured you lost your keys to your front door, though how you locked it in the first place is a mystery to me! Either way, I'd be happy to carry a spare key in case you ever forget it again."

I froze.

I didn't forget my keys. I hid it in the lamp like I always did, like how the great Kougra author Jamie Jenneson did. I'd never forget that.

Unless...

"How sure are you that it was me?" I asked.

"Oh, pretty sure," my Wocky neighbor said. "I've been your neighbor for five years now, and truth be told, I read your stories. I'd recognize a big famous author neighbor like you!"

I had been sleepwalking. That was the only explanation, right? I decided to take a walk to clear my mind, and when I walked past the Wishing Well, I heard that voice again.

"I'm coming to collect your debt tonight."

So here I am, writing what could possibly be my final note. Something is coming for me tonight. I don't know what it is, but my mind is telling me over and over again that it's a beastly creature, a deeply unhuman one, one that'll know where I am no matter where I run.

I didn't write those stories. No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I didn't write any of those stories. And now I fear I'm about to die, and my only legacy is a collection of stories I had no creative input in. And now I'm about to die because of my stupidity, my desperate need for fame, for validation from the public, and I got that validation but it was all fake because I didn't write a single word in any of those fucking stories.

I feel the demon coming now.

I can't explain it, but I can feel it entering my house.

It's too late for me. But it might not be for you.

Please, no matter how tempted and desperate you may be, STAY AWAY FROM THE WISHING WELL.

DO NOT MAKE ANY WISHES.

AND IF A WISH COMES TRUE, DON'T DARE

******

You just read an excerpt from Charlie Robinson's upcoming novel, The Wishing Well Warning! Neopian Times readers can easily see how inspired this story is from his recent rise to fame, and hype for the book is so high, the Wishing Well has experienced an uptick in visits in the past week!

Next week, we're interviewing Robinson himself on what it's like writing auto fiction for the first time and how the surprise successes of his short stories have impacted him. Don't miss it!