I wanted to be a writer, you see. It wasn’t a dream or an ambition. It was my Fate. I wanted to place my thoughts on paper, for all to read. Then I died under the wheel of some hideously blue Toyota Sienna 2014. You should have seen the driver’s face. I know I did. Just for an instant. Oh, I was angry for a while. I died. There was my body, all mangled and red and crushed and dead. Here was my soul, untouchable and intangible and not dead. I’m pretty sure that’s not right. Wasn’t I supposed to go to heaven? Or maybe hell? I wasn’t in either.

What’s the point of wanting to write? Isn’t it to communicate in some way? Well, now nobody could even see me. Forget communication. I was angry for a while, like I said. But all those haunt stories, you know, with the ghosts sneaking through hallways and leading heroes and heroines to their deaths? Not true. I tried. It doesn’t work. All my knives go straight through without a drop of blood, even when I draw them back. My victim keeps moving like nothing happened. I tried with hammers, bricks, everything. I even tried a pencil. Nothing happens.

Everything I touched is equally as ghostly as me. I grab a heavy book, and only a shadow follows me. I drop it on someone; it falls to the ground without a sound. Maybe I am intangible, but my world is, too. Those people walking, they’re the ghosts. They go right through me, you see.
So, if everything of mine can’t be seen, heard, or tasted . . . how are you reading this? You’re not a ghost . . . .

I want to be a writer; you see.