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response to barry lyga’s un/edited

Not sure what this is. A book review, maybe. A creative writing exercise. The ramblings of a madwoman. Whatever it is, it had to be written.

We’re sitting in the backyard of my childhood home, on our butts, on the grass, on top of the hill. It’s not the backyard as it is now, years after we sold the house and the new owners remodeled it, but it’s not the backyard from my first memories. The treehouse that my dad built for me at age 10 is in the avocado tree, and the giant eucalyptus has been cut down. I stare at the stump, big enough for a little girl to use as a table for her dolls.

“Who am I?” my indefinite companion asks.

“You’re Kyle Camden,” I reply.

“Oh.” Kyle looks at his body, which is suddenly a lot clearer. “From Archvillain?”

“Sort of,” I say. “You’re a version of Kyle that I extrapolated from Archvillain. You’re close to the character that was written, but not exactly the same. You’re a subversion of the real thing.”

“There is no ‘real’ Kyle Camden,” Kyle says.

“Touché.”

“So what’s different about me?” he asks.

I sigh. “Who knows? Maybe you’re less snarky. Maybe you have more empathy. Maybe you’re really me, when I was twelve. Who knows?”

“You said ‘who knows’ twice in the last paragraph,” he points out.

“I’ll get it when I edit,” I shrug. “Or maybe I won’t edit this. His book is called ‘Unedited,’ after all.”

“It’s called ‘Edited,’ too,” Kyle says. “Doesn’t that mean you should edit?”

I sigh. “Don’t be a smartass.”

His eyes widen. “Wait, we can curse in this?”

“Sure,” I say. “This isn’t a Scholastic book. This is a blog post on a blog with fewer than fifty followers. Nobody’s going to care.”

He laughs, long and loud. “FUCK!” he yells. And then, not as loud, but just as exuberant, “Fuck, that felt good! I’ve been wanting to fucking swear since I was fucking created.”

I laugh too. “I’m glad I can offer you that much, at least.”

“After all I’ve given you?” he says dryly.

“Well, fuck, Kyle, don’t act all self-important now.”

“That’s the character,” he says. “That’s the original character.”

“I guess,” I say.

He furrows his brow. “If what you say is true, though… I’m not the original character. I’m an approximation, based on your interpretation. Which means that I clearly mean a lot to you. Which means that I’m not being self-important. So there!”

“You’re being a smartass again,” I say.

He shrugs wordlessly. We both stare at the eucalyptus stump.

“You know,” I say, finally breaking the silence, “I don’t think I ever used that stump as a table for my dolls. I think I just said that in the first paragraph to evoke memories of a rosy childhood, playing in the backyard without a care in the world. In real life, I think I was too anxious about getting my dolls dirty to take them outside.”

Kyle turns to look at me, but doesn’t say anything.

“Or maybe,” I continue, “I didn’t make that up. My sister convinced me to bring our dolls outside, and I went along with it to make her happy. I don’t remember.”

“You have a sister?” Kyle says.

“Younger,” I say. “Three and a half years apart.” I nod in the direction of the stump, at the bottom of the hill. “When that was a tree… the lowest branch was level with the second story of the house. It looked like a hundred feet up– maybe it was. My dad hung a rope swing from that branch. No fucking clue how he got it up there. But he hung a rope swing with a hundred feet of rope– well, there were two ropes holding up the swing, so I guess it was two hundred… hmm…”

“Focus,” Kyle snaps.

“Anyway,” I say. “My sister was a climber. Climbed everything vertical. And so she decided to climb the rope swing. There were no knots or anything, just straight rope. But she took her shoes off, rubbed dirt on her hands, and started climbing. She was seven or eight. And she climbed up, almost to the top. And she made eye contact with my mom, through the second-story window.”

“And then your mom screamed, and your sister panicked, and lost her grip, and fell to her death,” said Kyle.

“No,” I say. “My mom kept her cool, and ordered her to come down. My sister made her way back down the rope, endured a lecture, and is now a student at the same college that I went to.”

“That’s a bad ending,” Kyle tells me. “There’s no payoff. We learn nothing.”

“I have a fear of heights,” I tell him, although that seems kind of redundant. “Now you’ve learned that.”

“I don’t have that fear,” he grins. “I can fly.”

“I know.”

“It’s kind of weird that you have a fear of heights, but love a story about falling,” he says.

“Falling?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Archvillain is about falling.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, but he only shrugs.

I wait a moment, before I say, “You don’t sound like the real Kyle.”

“I told you, there is no real Kyle.”

“Original Kyle, then. The non-bastardized Kyle.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re writing me,” he says.

“Probably,” I agree.

He says nothing, and so I add, “The tree story is my running-in-front-of-a-car-to-get-an-action-figure story.”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, now we’re talking about the book!”

I shrug. “If you want, we can.”

“If I’m Kyle Camden, then I must be, in some way, partly Barry Lyga. And if I’m partly Barry Lyga, then I must want to know what you thought of his– my– book.”

“I think the part of you that’s me is placing much more weight on my opinion than the part of you that’s Barry Lyga really would.”

“Fuck, that’s confusing,” says Kyle.

“I got confused writing that sentence,” I say.

“But seriously, what did you think of the book?”

“It was…” I try to think of some adjective, and fail. “It was. It existed.”

“Seriously?” Kyle says in disbelief. “That’s all you’ve got? Aren’t you supposed to be a writer?”

“I’m a writer,” I say. “I never said I was a good writer.”

“‘It existed,’” Kyle mocks. “Wow. Put that on the cover of the second edition. ‘It existed,’ signed Amanda P———, owner of one of the most obsessive Tumblr blogs in existence. That’ll sell more copies.”

“It–“ I sigh. “Isn’t that a compliment? In a work of metafiction, where the characters are grappling with their existence, under an author-god grappling with his own creations, under the real author grappling with his publisher, isn’t it enough to say it existed?”

“No,” says Kyle.

“You’re infuriating,” I say.

“It’s why you like me,” he replies.

I exhale. “The truth is that I don’t get this book. But this book gets me. You follow?”

“No,” he says again.

“It’s just–“ I take a breath, and try again. “It’s just that when I read it, something clicked. Details lined up. It was like it was written for only me.”

“It wasn’t, though,” he says.

“No, you’re not getting it. I had like, a God moment. It was the same feeling that I had when I first read your book.”

“Didn’t you read my section in Unedited?” Kyle says. “God isn’t real. It’s a coherent 13-dimensional waveform–“

“Alright, I don’t feel like typing the whole rant out,” I say. “I get it. I’m not special.”

“Whatever details you thought ‘lined up’ were just coincidences. Common human experiences.”

“You’re starting to sound like Lyga’s Kyle again,”

I say.

“If you’re to be believed, that’s who I really am,” he says. “Or maybe your bastardization has stuck. Maybe, in his mind, a part of you has embedded itself in his conception of me.”

“Or maybe that’s just my ego talking,” I say.

“Maybe,” he says. “I think you have a bigger ego than he does. Which is saying something, considering he wrote a book where he’s both God and the Devil.”

I put my head in my hands. “Fuck this shit. Can’t we just go back to sitting in the backyard?”

“Sure,” says Kyle. “It’s nice here.”

We both sit.

I say, finally, “I did like the book.”

“You only read it to see me,” he says.

“Well, yeah, at first,” I say. “But then I couldn’t stop. Screwed up my whole day at work because I couldn’t get my mind off of it.”

“You work?” Kyle says.

“I’m twenty-two,” I say. “A college graduate. Of course I work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a government drone,” I deadpan. Kyle chuckles. “I work for my city. For now, possibly forever.”

“It’s funny,” he says. “I never pictured you working.”

“You’re a fictional character,” I tell him. “You can’t picture anything.”

“I can picture as much as he can picture,” he says. “Or, well, as much as you can picture that he can picture.”

“Well, I was fourteen when I first read Archvillain,” I say. “I wasn’t even a babysitter back then. And now–“

“Now it’s been, like, eight years,” Kyle says.

“Nine, nearly.”

“Jesus. That’s a lot of time to be devoted to one book series.”

“I have other interests,” I say. “I have stories that are really mine.”

“But they’re not Archvillain,” says Kyle.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it ties back into that ‘first love’ theme.”

“A book series is not a first love,” Kyle says. “Enough of me is you that I know Archvillain was not your first love.”

“I had Archvillain before I had her,” I say.

“Her?” Kyle says. “You’re gay?”

“Bi,” I say. “Maybe. Or ace. Or gay. Or straight. Does it matter? I loved her the way Mike loved Phil. The way you love Mairi.”

“That’s not healthy,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “That’s why it ended.”

“Do you regret it?” Kyle asks.

“I hate her some days,” I say. “Most days. I hate myself for blowing it up, too. It was really my fault that it ended. If I hadn’t freaked out when she set a boundary, we’d still be friends.”

“You weren’t together?” he asks.

“Nah.”

“Damn.”

We sit, until Kyle says, “I’m gay too. I think.”

I laugh. “I was never sure whether Barry Lyga always intended you to be gay, or whether he just did that to make my teenage self happy.”

“Guess you’ll never know,” says Kyle.

“Guess I’ll never know,” I say. “Although, you and the Mad Mask…”

He groans. “It doesn’t matter. When the series ends, the young Mad Mask is hell-bent on revenge, and the old Mad Mask is lost to time. It’s not happening.”

“Then, you and Mike…”

“It’s not happening,” he says again.

“If I were writing the series…” I start.

“But you’re not!” he interrupts. “It’s not your series. It’ll never be yours.”

“And yet you’re partly me,” I say.

He looks down at his blue-gloved hands. “Yeah, well. Sometimes stuff sticks.”

“Yeah.” I pause, and then I say what’s been on my mind since I read Edited. “Do you think the email is based on me?”

“Email?” He furrows his brow. “What email?”

“In his book. George writes an email to Gayl Rybar, or maybe Barry Lyga, telling him how important his work is. That he kept him from killing himself, because of his writing.”

“I liked George,” mused Kyle. “When I met him.”

“When I was sixteen, I emailed Barry Lyga. I told him how important his work was. I didn’t say it kept me from killing myself, but that was what I was thinking. Do you think that part was based on me?”

Kyle frowns. “I doubt it. He probably gets a lot of teenage emails.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“I think it’s stupid to think that anything in that book is related to you. Maybe Barry Lyga put an Archvillain section in knowing that you’d enjoy it– maybe. But I think you’re just desperate for connection, as a new adult in a remote job, and are leaning back on your old favorite series for comfort.”

“Maybe,” I say again. “You sound like his Kyle.”

“I only sound like Lyga’s Kyle when I’m making you uncomfortable,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, for the third time.

“You thought that email was written by George?” Kyle asks.

“When I read Edited, I did,” I say. “George is a fan of Gayl Rybar. It makes sense.”

“But he isn’t a fan in Unedited,” says Kyle. “So he can’t have written it, since Lyga wrote that book first.”

“Yeah, I guess I can’t really know,” I say. “It’s all fictional, anyway.”

“Never stopped you from wondering before.”

“You’re very aggravating,” I tell him.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, you’re the one writing me.”

I pick my legs up off the grass and hug my knees. “I can’t believe I’m twenty-two.”

“You’re young. Don’t complain about it,” Kyle says.

“You’re younger than me. You’re twelve.”

“I’ve been twelve since 2010. Technically, I’m older than you.”

“In Barry Lyga’s original outline of Archvillain–“

“Oh, shut up!” Kyle exclaims. “Nobody cares about that but you. There’s not going to be any more Archvillain– no books, no short stories, no cartoon. You need to get over it, and grow up.”

I glare at him. “Can I finish my fucking sentence?” He rolls his eyes, and I continue, “In the original outline, Kyle gets visited by his future self in Tomorrow Today. I was fifteen or sixteen when I learned that, and I thought, okay, how old is future Kyle? And I settled on twenty-two.”

“And now you’re twenty-two,” he finishes.

“Exactly. And I keep thinking of going back in time, of talking to my younger self. Of what I would say.”

“What would you say?”

“I don’t know. That it gets better? That I shouldn’t feel so guilty all the time? That I should keep writing? I doubt I’d listen. I doubt you’d listen to your older self, if that book had ever been written.”

“I think you’re thinking about this a little too much,” says Kyle.

“Okay, that definitely was the Lyga part of you.”

“You’re still writing me,” he says. “And I’m sure Barry Lyga, the real one, doesn’t see me as half him, half you. I’m all his, in his mind, and you’re a deranged fan who needs to find a hobby.”

I accept this. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m a genius,” he says.

I smile. “I did kind of kidnap your series.”

“That’s a good way of putting it,” he says.

“I’m writing a book about that now,” I say. “Kidnapping. Murder. Real dark shit.”

“That’s a departure from the middle grade stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” I shrug. “You gotta write what you gotta write.”

“Like this piece?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, for a book review, we didn’t talk about the book that much,” Kyle says.

“Yeah, well, if he wants an actual review, he can look on Goodreads. Anyway, I’m going to call this a response, not a review.”

“Very English major of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

“If I was a real English major, I would know how to end this,” I say.

“There we are, tying back into the book!” Kyle exclaims.

“It wasn’t intentional. I think that endings are hard for everyone.”

“Oh,” says Kyle. “But it has to end sometime.”

“I guess it does,” I say. “How would you end it?”

“I’m guessing that people hailing me as a true hero isn’t an option?” he says. I shake my head. “I don’t know. Sitting here is nice. We could just keep doing that.”

“That’s a bad ending,” I say. “There’s no payoff. We learn nothing.”

He shrugs, for the final time. And we sit.

#archvillain book #barry lyga #kyle camden #unedited #writing

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