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Déjà écrit

It's still happening. I've written about it before but I doubt that anyone believes me. Nevertheless it is a part of my life and the only explanation for my having written a novel so spontaneously back when I did. I am referring to the fact that my novel is apparently based on my future memories, which have been becoming past memories ever since I wrote it.

This last week my angel and I visited new friends in Devon. Partway through the week I woke one morning realising that the events and things that I'd seen at their home had in a sense all been incorporated into my novel years ago. When I wrote it originally I suspected that it was based on forgotten dreams, only later noticing the connections with later events, but last week another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Apparently the place outside of our reality described in the novel is literally inside my head and occasionally I meet my earlier self there to exchange ideas for the story. It seems that that night last week I passed my new memories back in time and my earlier self decided how to incorporate them into the story and explained that to me. It seems totally mad to think this but the more these coincidences happen the more convincing the idea becomes. It isn't important whether it is absolutely true as I suspect that there is no absolute when it comes to the ultimate nature of reality but empirically it carries more and more weight as the future unfolds.

As time goes by, to our perception that is, my novel will become more and more normal, a somewhat nondescript story based on trivial events in my life, the sort of thing that anyone might write, and anyone reading it will see nothing special about it. Only when the timeline is examined does the peculiarity become evident, that it was written years before it could have been, but that won't make it any better as a story. I find it fascinating though and wonder just how far into the future my underlying research extends.

I could almost write a far more interesting story about how I came to write the novel but there is a snag. The information upon which the story is based is very personal to the real people involved, so I doubt that I could ever write about the real events and people that form the basis for this strange document.

I see that elsewhere a thread was started asking what we want our readers to take away from our writing. I couldn't bring myself to post a response there. The few readers that I have must place their own interpretation on my writing and take away whatever puts them at their ease, even if that entails their believing that my writing is in some way deficient. Rather that than that any part of humanity should ever believe that there is any truth in the story that I wrote -- or any of this written here for that matter.


Yes, it is still happening. I awoke this morning with a muzzy head and more realisations about the source material for the novel that I wrote about four years ago. I think linking my brain to itself four years ago stresses it, or maybe as I wrote in the novel it is the stress that opens the link.

Yesterday I was deliberating about buying a bank of lead acid batteries to power my vintage computer. My mains power units aren't powerful enough to run it, but I could run it for short periods on batteries at a higher current. I can't build a more powerful mains power unit because I don't know how much power the computer needs, not until I turn it on and test it. That's the catch, that there is no way that I can acquire the information that I need to build the device without breaking the laws of time and using future knowledge. Using the batteries will just be a temporary measure to find out what I need to know to make my plans for the future. Yesterday I ordered a couple of batteries to investigate whether they'll be suitable for the purpose.

That is also the basis of the plot in my novel, written some four years ago. All my deliberations and calculations concerning the amount of power that the batteries will provide and how long the computer will run using them, those are all factors affecting events in the story. Just as I don't know how much power my computer will actually need during any test run, so the people in my novel never know how long the batteries in their machine will last.

Of course these short paragraphs barely touch on the similarity between the thoughts that I had yesterday and the thoughts that went into writing my novel. It had never occurred to me until very recently that using batteries might solve my problem. It could be argued that it was the plot of my novel that prompted me to think of it, not the other way around, but that still doesn't answer the fundamental question. Why, when I was so eager to build my replica vintage computer, did I set the project aside for a couple of years to write a novel instead?

If my novel really were an analogy documenting my future vintage computer project then I would expect the novel itself also to be mentioned in some analogous form. It is. In the story the original design notes for the machine used have been lost, although it is believed that some encrypted files stored on a computer may contain them. The computer has indicated that there is also a time-lock on the files, so their contents will not be revealed until some point in the future. The encrypted files are of course in reality the files on my computer containing the chapters of the novel. The encryption is the way that I have used analogies to represent everything and the significance of the analogies isn't revealed until the events that they represent occur, hence the time-lock. Last night another one of the analogies was unlocked to me.

Right from when I joined WF at the beginning of this year I have been quite consistent with my story about my time distorting brain. WF has two clearly defined categories for written works, factual and fictional, but some stories sit firmly in the twilight zone between those. My novel Never Upon A Time is apparently one such, maybe not fiction based on reality but a reality based on fiction, unless one believes in time travel, that is.

Anyway, whatever the truth about all that, I have to do some research into the charging and discharging of VRLA batteries now, so my peculiar writing career is on hold again.


Now it's the afternoon and those batteries have arrived in the post. That means that I have to turn my thoughts into a reality. I can't understand why people find writing fiction so hard when creating reality is so much harder. Maybe I will be sidetracked by the other parcel heading my way though. According to the freight tracking system it is currently at Cincinnati Airport and about to be flown to the UK. It contains a vintage gaming console, a Christmas present for an autistic teenage boy that I know. All I have to do is modify it to work in the UK. A character in my novel is based on him, not that I knew him four years ago of course, but that is apparently not a problem to my bizarre brain. Yes, there's an autistic lad who spends all his spare time playing computer games just like the real one. I got one detail wrong though. I named my character George but the real one isn't. No, but his sister is named Georgia, hardly a common name. That was an easy mistake to make. So okay, communication across time isn't reliable technology but I'm working on it. I just need to work out how to use these batteries.

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