Dr. Shannon Lutz's Fictional Character Therapy Group #writers #authors #humor

Every Saturday at 7 p.m., near a warehouse off 5th and Main, there is an office between a daycare center and 7-Eleven. The office is nondescript. Boring beige miniblinds block any viewers from peering in. The scent of strong coffee emanates from beneath the office door, while inside, Dr. Shannon Lutz hosts a weekly therapy session for fictional characters who have been emotionally injured or otherwise tormented by their creators.

The waiting room is full, the clock is ticking, and someone is crying.  A wizard, sitting to the left of the receptionist, in a red leather chair with brass buttons, is trying to fill out intake forms with a quill that keeps catching fire. On the other side, Ms. Mable Thorn, lets out a shriek as she recounts the trials with her faithful companion, canine Ms. Eliza Doolittle, to a little boy holding a paintbrush dripping white paint over the antique linoleum flooring.  The boy, dressed in worn overalls, looks annoyed and somewhat mischievous. 

Ms. Lutz's session begins the same way every week: with a deep sigh from the protagonist, Jason Billingsly, who hasn’t slept since chapter two. He slumps onto the couch and explains, for the hundredth time, that his author refuses to let him rest. Every time he tries to take a nap, a new villain appears, or a prophecy is revealed, or a long‑lost relative shows up with a cryptic warning. He says he’s one dramatic monologue away from quitting the entire manuscript and moving to a quiet neighborhood in East LA where no one knows his name. He might even get a goat or two. 

Dr. Lutz nods sympathetically, her glasses bobbing on her nose, and writes something in her notebook that looks suspiciously like braindead, if the reflection in the mirror is accurate. 
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Next comes the side character, Damion Shadrack who knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s been created solely to die tragically. He wrings his hands as he explains that his author gave him a quirky personality, a tragic backstory, and a lovable dog — the holy trinity of emotional manipulation. And that doesn't include the talking parrot that will live longer than he will. He’s convinced he’s living on borrowed time. The dragon sitting beside him pats his shoulder gently, which is impressive considering the dragon’s claws are the size of salad tongs. Yet, the action doesn't go unnoticed as Mr. Shadrack leans in toward the dragon who then wraps him in a bony embrace. 

The villain clears his throat dramatically, as villains do, and announces that he’s not actually evil. He never wanted to be evil. He wanted to open a bakery. You know, donuts and things. Maybe some croissants.  But his author insists he needs to be brooding and morally ambiguous, so now he spends his days delivering monologues about evil when all he really wants is to perfect his sourdough starter.

"Have you tried communicating this to your creator?" Dr. Lutz asks in a throaty, cigarette-scarred pharyngical voice.

The romantic lead bursts in, late as usual, complaining that her entire persona is based on miscommunication. She's not emotional or emotive. She explains that if she ever said what she actually meant, the book would be over in forty pages. She has no intention of being ambiguous, instead, she’s forced to misunderstand everything, fall into the love interest’s arms repeatedly, even as he cheats on her with the harlot down the street. 

Liz, the dragon, who has been quietly steaming in the corner, finally speaks up. She's tired of being a metaphor for anger, greed, and trauma. She no longer wants to be a symbol of humanity's inner turmoil. She's tired of caves, scales, and a burning throat.  She just wants to be loved for herself. 

Dr. Lutz hands her a stress ball which immediately melts. 

During the break, the characters gather around the snack table to compare grievances. One complains about being stuck in a love triangle for seven years. Another says their author forgot they existed halfway through chapter nine, and what happened to the child she was to bear? A superhero mutters that they’ve been wearing the same outfit since 2014 and would kill for a pair of sweatpants. Liz, the dragon, eats the table.

When the session wraps up, Dr. Lutz leads them through affirmations. She reminds them that they are more than their trauma, more than their plot arcs, and are absolutely not responsible for their author’s deadlines. Everyone breathes deeply. Even the villain looks a little better.

As they file out — back to their quests, their heartbreaks, their battles, and their unresolved plot holes — one thing is clear: being fictional is hard. Being fictional with a dramatic, caffeine‑addicted writer pulling the strings is harder. But at least they have therapy, and of course, Ms. Lutz.