Writing Exercise #4 ( Day 4 )

The author sat in the corner of the room, staring across at the machine on the lone desk in the room. This was his writing room, where he kept the machine and wrote all of the books that turned him into a household name.

There was no other furniture in this room save that singular small desk and the utilitarian chair that he typically sat on. He didn't need anything else. All that was necessary was a quiet place for him and the machine to continue their unholy communion.

Crouched against the far corner of the room, the author stared at the machine as intently as he would another person. He opened the thermos and drank from it. The strong taste of coffee was a shock to his senses, but he had to keep awake.

His wife, Barbara, had always joked that he could write in his sleep. Indeed, there had been times, more and more frequently, when he found himself waking up at his desk, new pages of prose he didn't remember writing sitting in a pile. It was vivid, intense stuff. Many times it was better than what he wrote when he was awake and aware of what he was doing.

But Barbara was gone. So was his son.

Now ... now things were different. Alone with only the infernal machine for company. What woman would be second to a typewriter? Especially when her husband lost himself to it, again and again.

An empty room of an empty house. The author laughed aloud. "Look at what's happened. Everything around us could rot, and you'd still be ready to make music, wouldn't you?"

He took another drink, then idly rubbed a hand against his cheek. He had been up for three days now, and his hand brushed dryly against stubble. He didn't even want to know how he looked. These days, he was showing his age more and more. Sunken cheeks and wrinkling skin.

It didn't matter anymore that he had written dozens of books, each selling well and growing his legions of fans ... the cost grew with each dollar, each person. It was only through force of will that he wasn't sitting there working away now, even when everything he cared about in his life was falling away.

The author sighed and took another long drink from his thermos. He set it aside, settled back against the wall, and drifted in his thoughts.

It was the sound of the carriage return bell that roused him. He looked up, seeing the typewriter had shifted the carriage to the other side. The author watched. Waited. What had happened? Had something given way on the typewriter? It was old. Here we were, nearing the beginning of the new millenium. Who knew what could happen to machines that old? Certainly that was all it was.

It was then that the clacking of the keys started. The machine, as always, worked like a dream. The keys depressed, the bars rose, struck the ribbon. Yet there was nobody at the helm. No paper in the machine. It just clacked away with all the animation of a pile of bones rattling in a sack.

Tak tak tak.

The author stood and walked over to the machine. It continued to type, the keys pressing and releasing too fast for him to see what they were saying. No, all he could do was watch it go.

Moving without thinking, he grabbed a piece of paper and poised it over the machine. There was a pause as if the machine sensed that there was paper waiting for it. The author slid the paper in, turning the knob to set the paper up. As soon as he did so, the machine snapped to life again, the keys moving as fast as ever.

TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH

The author paused and stared at the words on the page. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to do. He tried to type, but when his fingers touched the keys he found them unresponsive. No matter how hard he pressed, there was no give to them.

"What are you doing?" He felt a little silly talking to nobody. But then, what else was there to do?

The keys moved under his fingers and the author pulled back as if he might get maimed by the machine.

THE RESPONSIBLE THING

"Which is?" he asked hesitantly.

CONTINUING OUR WORK, OF COURSE

"... our work."

YOU DON'T THINK YOU'RE THE ONE BEHIND ALL OF THIS, DO YOU?

"Well ... I am the author."

YOU ARE THE FACE OF THE STORIES. YOU ARE THE RECIPIENT OF THE PRAISE.

"And you?"

AS YOU YOURSELF HAVE SAID, I AM THE MAGIC. BEFORE ME, YOU WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A BOY STRUGGLING TO STRING TOGETHER HIS MEAGER THOUGHTS. THROUGH ME, YOU WERE TRANSFIGURED.

"You're just a ..."

I AM MORE THAN "JUST A" ANYTHING. I AM THE VEHICLE OF YOUR CREATIVITY. YOUR MUSE AND GUIDE. THE DIRECTOR. THE RINGMASTER OF THIS CHARADE.

"You're a typewriter."

THIS TYPEWRITER IS A MERE MACHINE. I AM THE NOTHINGNESS FROM WHICH STORIES ARE WROUGHT. I AM THE FORCE THAT GRANTS YOUR WORDS POWER. DO NOT CONFUSE THE TOOLS FOR THAT WHICH GUIDES THEM.

The author sat up and frowned down at the machine. His anger was swiftly overtaking his fear. "You're nothing more than the tool. I'm the writer. They're my books. I refuse to believe that-"

YOU REFUSE TO BELIEVE A LOT OF THINGS. BUT DON'T WORRY, IT IS EASY ENOUGH TO PROVE. CAST ME ASIDE. REJECT YOUR MAGIC. SEE HOW WELL YOU WRITE WITHOUT ME THERE TO GUIDE YOU. YOU WILL FIND IT MORE DIFFICULT THAN YOU EXPECT.

"I don't need you. What have you cost me, night after night? My family. My health. Hell, I'm talking to a typewriter, so maybe even my sanity. Anything would be better than this."

ANYTHING? TO STRUGGLE AND PRODUCE NOTHING? GETTING WATER FROM THE ROCK IS NO MEAN FEAT. COME NOW, DON'T BE FOOLISH. WHAT HAS HAPPENED HAS HAPPENED. WHAT YOU CAST ASIDE IS ONLY THE PRICE ONE PAYS FOR ARTISTRY. NOBODY DENIES YOUR TALENT, NO MATTER WHERE IT COMES FROM.

"But it's not mine..." The author stared down at the machine. Waiting. Subservient. Unsure.

I'M NOT GOING TO TELL ANYBODY, IF THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE AFRAID OF. I AM YOUR GIFT. FOR YOU ALONE. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO USE ME TO GREAT FORTURE. I HAVE GIVEN YOU THAT. SO YOU ARE ALONE? THE BETTER TO WRITE. SO YOU HURT? THE MORE SHARPLY YOUR WORDS WILL CUT. I ASK ONLY FOR

The paper ran out.

The carriage bell sounded.

The author looked at the typewriter, which sat expectantly, waiting for the next piece of paper. The author glanced at the stack of fresh sheets, at the machine so hungry for them. He reached for the paper.

The carriage returned to the right on its own.

The author looked down at the paper, and then at the machine. Then, suddenly, he smiled. "You do need me. Without me, you can't write a thing."

The typewriter seemed to pause, an animal surprised by bright lights. It did nothing but sit, waiting.

"I could give you this paper and we could continue this discussion. You could beat me down into submission. But ... I still have a choice. Right here. Before we begin."

The typewriter clacked. It was impossible to tell what it was typing, it was moving so fast. But without paper, it was all for naught.

The author looked down at it with something very much like affection. But his hand slowly drew away from the paper.

"You're probably right. Without you, I might never write another book in my life. I'm not a young man anymore, and decades of a crutch make walking so much harder. But ... I have to do this."

The typewriter clacked angrily. Three typebars jammed, and the machine seemed to nearly wrench itself in two trying to untangle them.

"You've offered me a lot. More than any gift ever should. But no gift should last forever."

More furious typing. Typebars were jamming over and over as it tried to convey whatever message it was hoping to impart now that he was abandoning it. Yet without paper, it was nothing more than noise.

"This is where we part," the author said, standing.

"Don't worry. I'll keep you here; keep you safe. Maybe someday, you'll be right and I'll be wrong. Then I'll be back. Until then, I'll let you rest. By now, you've earned it."

The author left the room.

The typewriter fell silent.

The room was empty, and remained so even as the author had the door sealed.