A Monster Calls

Stories are the wildest things of all, the monster rumbled. Stories chase and bite and hunt.

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere inbetween.

Stories are important, the monster said. They can be more important than anything. If they carry the truth.

Stories were wild, wild animals and went off in directions you couldn’t expect.

You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do.

“You be as angry as you need to be,” she said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not your grandma, not your dad, no one. And if you need to break things, then by God, you break them good and hard.”

The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.

Because humans are complicated beasts, the monster said. How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?

If you do not tell it, the monster said, I shall have to tell it for you. It held Conor up closer to its face. And believe me when I say, you do not want that.

As incredible as it seemed, time kept moving forward for the rest of the world.

The rest of the world that wasn’t waiting.