(A/N: This is my first fic. I need LOADS of criticism if I'm going to get better! Enjoy!)

Only 1 of every 1000 people ever got their Notebook. No one knows who distributes them, or even how they work. But it would happen on their 16th birthday: The child would wake up to find a Notebook in their arms, open to the first page. It simply read:

Dear Scribblenaut:

I know you'll use this well. Good luck!

That was just how it worked. Usually. Maxwell wasn't 16 when he got his. He was only 13 when he became an official Scribblenaut. The first page of his book was normal, but the second read as follows:


I'm rooting for you, pal.

That was when Maxwell knew he was different from the other kids. He was somebody, he was his own person. He was a Scribblenaut. It was destiny.