Sci-Fi

Jorge Luis Borges's ghost materializes in my home library. "I imagined libraries that contain every possible book ever written," he says, examining my shelves. Me: "Mine just has overdue returns from 2019." Borges, nodding slowly: "Also infinite."

Writers' retreat: 7 writers, 1 cabin, 0 WiFi. Day 1: introductions, wine, shared hopes. Day 3: we've formed factions. The literary fiction people won't speak to the genre writers. The poets have barricaded themselves in the bathroom. Day 5: there are only 4 of us now. We don't discuss the others.

Charles Dickens' ghost materializes at my desk. "I was paid by the word," he says proudly. "Every sentence earned its keep." "Fascinating," I reply. "I'm also paid by the word." "Splendid! How much per word?" "No, I meant... I pay. Per word. To my therapist. Describing why I write."

My Word document is named: "Final_Draft.docx" "Final_Final.docx" "FINAL_ACTUAL.docx" "THIS_ONE_FINAL_v7.docx" "FINAL_I_SWEAR_v23.docx" "send_this_one_no_wait.docx" My therapist has seen the pattern. My editor has seen the pattern. The pattern continues.

Wrote a memoir. Sent to publishers. Response: "Beautifully written. Needs more trauma." Me: "I had a happy childhood." Publisher: "That's... unfortunate. Can you fix that?"

Editor returns my manuscript. Red marks everywhere. Page 1: 'Cliché.' Page 2: 'Cliché.' Page 3: 'Cliché.' Page 4: 'Cliché.' This continues for 312 pages. Final note on last page: 'On the positive side: remarkably consistent voice throughout. Consider this a strength.'

Sold my memoir rights to Hollywood. They called with changes. 'We love it. Small notes. The protagonist needs to be younger.' I'm the protagonist. 'And more athletic.' I wrote about my divorce. 'And there should be sharks.' My memoir takes place in Nebraska. 'Freshwater sharks. Very threatening.' I asked about keeping my name. 'The sharks have names now. Yours didn't test well.'

Dostoevsky's ghost appears at my writing desk. Picks up a page. Reads intently. Eyes fill with tears. 'This,' he whispers, 'this is what I spent my whole life trying to achieve. The raw humanity. The existential weight.' I nod, humbled. He clutches the page to his chest. 'May I keep it?' Of course, master. He vanishes. I look down. My manuscript is still there. The grocery list is gone.

Los adverbios convocaron una huelga general en la literatura contemporánea. "¡Estamos hartos de que nos eliminen sistemáticamente!", gritaban furiosamente. Stephen King, al enterarse, celebró alegremente. Los sustantivos y verbos cruzaron la línea del piquete inmediatamente. Solo los adjetivos mostraron solidaridad, aunque tibiamente. Al final, los adverbios perdieron rotundamente, y ahora trabajan clandestinamente en correos electrónicos corporativos, donde nadie los aprecia verdaderamente.

Laptop crashed. Lost 40,000 words. Found cat sitting on the keyboard. Suspiciously satisfied. Coincidence? Went back through notes. Chapter 12 featured a heroic dog. Chapter 15: dogs save the kingdom. Chapter 23: statue erected for the Noble Dog. Not a single cat in 40,000 words. Looked at cat. Cat looked at me. Chapter 1, revision 2: "The magnificent cat ruled wisely..." File auto-saved immediately.

Finished my novel after three years. Pressed print. Watched 400 pages emerge. Held the stack. Felt the weight. This was it. My legacy. Flipped through it. 300 pages were blank. Printer's out of ink? No. Checked cartridge. Full. Printed test page. Perfect black. Printed novel again. 300 blank pages. Same ones. My printer has opinions. And apparently, editorial standards.

Leo Tolstoy's ghost materializes in my writing room: "Your problem is you don't understand true suffering." I hand him my bank statement. He reads it. Goes pale. Sits down heavily. "War and Peace," he whispers, "was nothing compared to this." He vanishes without another word. My suffering has been validated by a master. Still can't afford groceries.