The Census

My annual story census has helped me to develop as a writer and to better reflect the world around me. Without the census how would I have known that left-handed lesbian Muslims were underrepresented in my stories by a factor of 73%?

Too often my stories fail to give characters an age, place of birth, current residence, religious belief, racial category or occupation. Sometimes I forget to give them a name and occasionally they don’t even have a specified gender. My annual census ensures that I have a wealth of information on all the characters I have used, a fantastic resource for re-writes, sequels and occasional prequels.

It wasn’t until this year, when I appeared for the first time in one of my own stories, that I had to complete one of the forms myself.

I sent myself the forms by email with a standardised, impersonal letter and a deadline of exactly a month to return the forms. Failure to meet the deadline, I was warned, would result in my character being deleted.

I’m not very good at paperwork, neither in my real life nor in my fictional form. Weeks passed by and the deadline approached. I didn’t want to have to go through the awkward process of deleting myself, but neither could I be seen to be making an exception. So I cancelled all fun and frolics for an evening and sat down in front of the form.

I realised as I completed it how unnecessary some of the questions were. Why do I want to know a character’s shoe size? When is that ever going to be needed for a story? I managed to complete the form eventually, vowing to myself that I’d send out a simpler version the next year.

A few days later I started working my way through the census responses from my characters. I came across the problem almost straight away. One of the first forms in the return pile came from the Other Terrence Oblong, a clone version of myself I had created in an earlier story.

Because he had gotten his form in so far ahead of me, under the Census Rules the Other Terrence Oblong now became the primary Terrence Oblong, replacing me. The Census Rules are complex, so I had to go and check them, but they are so worded that not only did he replace me as a character, he would also replace me as author. I, a living, breathing human being, would be replaced by my own fictional clone. You just couldn’t make it up!

This would mean that not only would the Other Terrence Oblong replace me in the real world, he would also become my writer; he would be able to make me do anything he wanted: clean his car, go to the shops to get some teabags, send me to the frontline in some god-awful war zone. He could even make me marry Nick Clegg if he so chose.

No, I couldn’t let The Other Terrence Oblong take over. My only option was to forge the handing-in date on my form, to make it look like it was received before the Other Terrence Oblong’s.

I would have gotten away with it, but I was unfortunate enough to be included in the 1 per cent of forms that were inspected by the Census Auditor.

I became a wanted man, guilty of Census fraud. The police were outside my door, probably awaiting instruction from a higher authority on whether to knock or ring (your average PC isn’t allowed to make ‘high level technical’ decisions without consulting someone of at least the rank of Sargent).

All exits were covered, so there was only one place I could hide. When the police arrived I was working on a story. There was just enough time to write myself into the text. My plan was simple; I’d hide away in the background of the story until the police were gone, then get back to my desk and kill off the Other Terrence Oblong. With him out of the way I would be free to remain my own author, any punishment from the Census authorities would be temporary.

However, now I was living in my own story there was a problem. With no Terrence Oblong out there in the real world there was nobody to write me back to life. The story would remain unfinished, and I would remain there, for eternity, trapped by my own stupid words.

I know it must be frustrating for you as a reader to find that this story doesn’t have an ending, but think what it’s like for me, stuck here, in the first draft of an unfinished tale. Frankly, I’d have been better off marrying Nick Clegg.