Like a Writer

The page was immune to words. That was the only explanation I could think of. That stupid, blinking line was more than an incentive to start, it was a built-in taunt.

I didn't know how to start this; how could I? Crime novels were a dime a dozen, and even that wasn't accurate. I could write outlines and characters all day, but the actual, hard writing? No way.

It was like this for the past few weeks. Inspiration came bounding into my life and left before I could refine it into anything worthwhile. For some stupid reason, I told people at work about it.

"Oh, really? You look the type."

"Hope I get a chance to read it soon."

"Maybe it'll be a bestseller."

I didn't even describe it yet, but everyone said the same thing. Run-of-the-mill enthusiasm mixed with honest ignorance about the format as a whole. Even Bobby from Accounting wanted to read it; the guy couldn't even read his tax returns properly. Maybe that was an omen.

Either way, I was stuck like that for a few weeks. Every night I'd sit at my desk, stare at that blank document, and try to fester a beginning, a middle, hell, even an ending. It just wouldn't come out. The concept wasn't even that crazy. A private detective, used to solving cheating scandals and runaways, winds up with a murder right outside his office. From there, he's meant to go around the city, piecing together the motive and the killer at the same time.

OK, maybe I didn't have it entirely planned out, but could you blame me? I've spent years in bookstores, always passing by the Best Seller section, the ages of the authors getting younger and younger. They have their whole lives ahead of them, built on dreams and running on determination. What do I have? A dead-end job? A not-so-claustrophobic apartment?

I needed this. Some chance to take my life somewhere else. If it could happen to them, it can happen to me, right? All I had to do was write the damn thing.

When work came around again, and I sat in the break room eating whatever I cobbled together that morning, Bobby sat right beside me, eager to hear updates. I had none.

For a moment, his eyes softened. He wasn't the big oaf who somehow hadn't gotten fired yet. Instead, he fished into his wallet and pulled out some pictures.

It was a deck in his house, nothing special. Unless the sight of a TV setup outdoors was something to marvel at, then it hit me. The guy was a complete and total moron. He couldn't change his tires, let alone build an entire deck. When I asked him how he did it, he just grinned.

"Imagine Excellence. It's crazy, man. It's got it all. Electronics, tools, maybe you can get a new laptop."

I already have one. Sure, it buffered more than it loaded, but who cares? It's a placeholder if anything. Bobby wasn't buying it. "I bought a new toolkit there. All it took was a day and BOOM!" He waved the patio picture around like a flag, triumphant among the dead haze of the break room. "It's like it built itself."

I wanted to brush it off, but I couldn't resist. If a brand new toolkit could turn Bobby into Tim Taylor, what could it do for me?

That weekend I looked it up and only had to walk to get there. It was a few blocks over, and I never heard of it. Small world.

The place wasn't as vibrant as I hoped. Tucked between the coffee shop and that old Chinese restaurant, it was easy to miss. The sign did no favors, either. Black text on a white billboard, it sat above the door. It didn't hang, nor did it suspend itself. It merely sat. I had nothing better to do, so I walked in.

The bell rang behind me, signaling it to no one at all. Still letting curiosity get the best of me, I walked around the store, as small as it was. It had the usual sections for different electronics: entertainment, utility, accessory. It wasn't until I wandered to the back of the store that I found a sub-section of a sub-section.

Assistance.

Now, when I think of "assistance," I think of hearing aids or those plug-in teleprompters. What I didn't think of was a glass case full of random junk. There was a dry brush, a guitar pick and….something bigger than the others. Something much more adult that I'd rather not describe.

The only electronic that wasn't specifically meant for the bedroom was a laptop on the top shelf. It wasn't much to look at. Newer than my own, but that was it. Then again, seeing it in the midst of nonsense was the only thing keeping me focused on it. Must have been some weird marketing trick.

Before I called it quits and left, a woman was already right behind me. "Interested in the assistance?" I wanted to try and slip past, but she stood in the way. Dark hair curled to her shoulders, parting for amber eyes. The kind that trickled in and out of a conversation, and yet here she was, trying to put on her best customer service face, focusing her sights on me.

She spoke with such a strong Italian accent that I almost had to take a moment to understand what she said. Then again, it was nothing like I had ever heard in person before. Every part of me wanted to stick around and her drone on about whatever, be it the products or her life. Anything. I had to shake the thought out of my head.

After I slipped past her, she called to me once again. "You're looking for help, yes? Well, here it is." She stepped beside the display, running a hand over the glass, letting dust stick to her fingers.

I shrugged and told her about Bobby, and she remembered him. The most unassuming, absent-minded man in the world left an impression on this mystery woman. Maybe that was a sign to stick around?

Since I had all the time in the world and she had every reason to help me, I told her about my problem. Those amber eyes lit up as she unlocked the case and reached high for the laptop. Taking me to the main counter, she set it down with care, showing off the logo on the top, "LeVare," whatever that meant. Before I could ask anything, she began her sales pitch.

"This laptop isn't like any other around. Every other one is made for businessmen, children. But not this. This is made for those who want to be like artists." She ran a hand along the gray casing, pristine as it was. Even under the dull humming lights, it shone no matter what. "Tell me," she asked, "do you want to be like an artist?"

I told her I was more of a writer, which made her smile.

"You wish to be like a writer, then? Have you always wanted that?"

I tried thinking back to when I was a kid; all of the dreams that took up my mind were vast and far. One day I wanted to be a firefighter, another day I wanted to be a street racer. Once I wanted to orbit space, then I preferred to draw. Awful drawing and general anxiety aside, I…settled. It felt weird to have that acknowledgement in a shady electronic store of all places, but there it was.

I settled at my job. I settled in my life. Did I have to settle in my dreams, too?

I bought it without a second thought. I wanted to be a lot of things in my life. Maybe I could be "like a writer," too.

Back home, I sat at the same desk with the only new addition in my life. The laptop buzzed on, hardly making a sound as the LeVare logo scribbled onto the screen. I set it up but was met with a constant "No Internet" pop-up whenever I tried to go online. Weird. At least the laptop had a built-in document system, so I started on that.

At least I was supposed to. Hours later, I had the same problem from before. A blinking line in the midst of emptiness. I couldn't even get mad. All I could do was yawn and tilt my head down. If anything, the desk seemed much more comfy than my bed. Maybe writers fell asleep at their desks, too?

The next morning came and stayed. Instead of lugging myself to the kitchen, I sat planted at my laptop. I wasn't staring at a blank document.

I was staring at a whole first chapter.

It was unbelievable. The few notes I had and vague ideas were conjoined into something actually eligible. I wasn't looking at a document. I was looking at something that felt like a book.

Detective Ramon Guiles stayed in his office, sipping on scotch, when a woman burst in, saying her husband had been murdered. He only scoffed and…took another drink? Wait, no. He scoffed and looked out the window. The woman only cried for his help, and all he could do was dismiss her woes.

A little darker than I wanted it to be right off the bat. And I wanted the murder to happen outside his office. I guess I was on a roll last night. Inconsistencies aren't a big deal. That's what editors are for.

I kept at this for a few weeks. Instead of wasting my whole day struggling to type, I let the ideas come to me on the edge of sleep. It was a bizarre process, but it was mine. I was bizarre in how I wrote. Like a writer.

Back at work. I actually had something to talk about. Bobby finally had to shut up and listen about my book. He nodded and smiled whenever I read my excerpts aloud. Of course he did. I was like a writer. He was Bobby.

Every night, I'd type until I'd pass out, waking up to see even more words thrown out in front of me. The banter between Ramon and Jennifer was mysterious and sly, often going back to their first meeting. It was great. They'd fall back into hating each other in a moment's notice. It made for great drama.

By the end of my draft, the two tracked down this string of murders to actually have been orchestrated by the Chief of Police, who was Jennifer's actual birth dad, by the way. The twists only got wilder, too. Ramon used to work for the Chief way back then; it was why he took Jennifer's case at all. The twists were everywhere. It was so confusing I even lost myself in the draft. True to form, I was like a writer, getting lost in my work.

When it was all done, I didn't want to wait. I had to get this out there. I sent it out to a dozen publishing companies and waited. The waiting was the worst part. I sat in front of the LeVare, reading over my draft again and again. It was only weeks ago that I couldn't even write an opening. Now, I had a whole manuscript ready to be devoured.

I bragged about it to Bobby again, and he was thrilled.

"It's all thanks to that Imagine place, right? I don't know what it is about that place, but it's like magic. That book you wrote, it was like I was reading an actual book, you know? One you could get in a store." Of course he said that. It was one of the few times he was right, after all.

A week later, I went to my old laptop, checking my email again. And there they were. All of the companies got back at the same time. I had to catch myself from falling out of my chair. It was happening; I was going to be like them. I was going to be like a writer.

I opened them one by one, eager to let the deals compete against each other in my mind. Maybe one wanted sequels. Maybe one wanted film rights. Except they didn't. All of them had the same subject.

"Declined Due to Plagiarism."

I didn't understand. I spent weeks on this. I had it all written, but now they tell me it's "plagiarized"? Were they trying to steal my idea? I heard stuff like that happening, but it was rare.

I couldn't let this go. I emailed one of the agents, begging for a real reason why I was rejected. Days later, it was the same thing, only more drawn out.

Plagiarism.

As if.

I tried ranting to Bobby about this, but all he did was talk about some new book he was reading. Some crime thriller about a private detective and a string of murders…

Wait.

I snatched the book from his hand, scanning it for anything from my manuscript. It was almost the same. Harold, this book's private eye, was torn between solving the murder of Jennie's husband and taking her for himself. He even went as far as going after his old boss, the Chief of Police, to try and wrangle the truth of the murders.

It shouldn't be possible. I was ready to call up a lawyer right then and there, but then I looked at the publishing date.

The book was made ten years ago by some no-name author.

I tossed the book back to Bobby before I ran out of there. There's no way my book plagiarized anyone. I wrote it myself. I spent countless nights falling asleep at my desk. Like a writer.

The damn thing couldn't even connect to the internet!

Something was off about that laptop, and there was only one person who could make sense of it. I stormed into the shop, empty again. No surprise there.

The woman sat behind the counter, eyes flickering toward my arrival. I didn't let her try to save face. I almost cracked the countertop glass with how hard I slammed the laptop on it. She didn't even flinch.

I told her about the laptop. About my writing, about the rejection, everything. Through it all, she didn't stop smiling. It wasn't wide or small; it was there. Serving the function of a smile, but none of the deceit you'd expect from a scammer.

"I don't know what to tell you." She tilted her head, looking at me like I was the crazy one. "You said you wanted to be like a writer, did you not?" She traced the LeVare logo with her fingertips, hardly looking at me. "Everyone wants to be like something else. People want to be like a handyman or like a writer. It's easier to buy into the fantasy than to put in the work, isn't it?"

I didn't understand. Ever since I walked back into this store, I stopped understanding anything around me.

"Listen." She held the laptop close to her chest, almost afraid it would drop. "You can only do so many things in life. You can waste away at your job. Try to impress people you pretend to be better than. You can even pretend to be a writer. What you can do is make a choice. Do you want to be like a writer, or do you want to be a writer?" She stared back at me, her once energetic eyes settling into a haze that couldn't be read. Placing the laptop down, she left for the back room, leaving me alone in the silence.

It was a rush, being able to write a whole book. But I didn't. Whatever that laptop was, it wasn't a tool. It was an assistant. An aid to a problem that was more complex.

Could I bring it back? I could write a hundred books with something like this, but every one of them would turn into some amalgamation of works that already existed. Would that make me a writer?

I stared at an empty document again, settling into the reaches of my mind that I'd like to call on for creativity. It was bare, for now. And yet, it only made me happier for such wild anticipation. What was creation if not for the struggle?