The Writer

The writer sat in front of his laptop, dully looking at the unfolding fabric of the text that he kept crocheting with his deftly fluttering fingers. He knew that it wouldn’t take him long to finish the remaining paragraphs, and then the norm would be fulfilled, and he would get food.

There were only 2,000 words left. When he finished the 10,000-word norm he had to submit it to the special verifier — a smart program that assessed that the text was unique, intelligible, that it didn’t consist of random words hastily put together, that the writing made some sense, and so on.

If all the criteria were satisfied, the program pointed out grammatical errors that had to be corrected, and after this light edit, the writer submitted the text again. Then the laptop produced the sound of fanfare and images of semi-naked anime girls, and the automated system connected to the laptop put in motion a series of elaborate devices opening the slot in the wall, through which slid a tray with hot, fresh, and steaming food.

The last time it was a pile of voluptuous, succulent pieces of fried chicken with a crispy crust, exuding hot sizzling juices, and a golden mount of baked potatoes languishing in spicy chicken gravy, emanating heat and maddening aroma of pepper, bay leaves, cinnamon, coriander. A tender and friendly fragrance of hot potatoes and a pungent note of fresh parsley sprinkled atop. The meal was supplemented with a huge mug of cappuccino — with a thick layer of foam on top — exuding an overwhelming air of sweetness and serenity.

The writer started slowly — unhurriedly taking small sips of coffee, greedily ogling the chicken obscenely spread before him — stretching the moment of pleasure. Then when he wasn’t able to control his instincts anymore, he sped up, wolfing down the artwork of chicken and potato, climaxing. Then, after the last piece had been gobbled and swallowed, he relaxed, slumping in the chair, and the flow of thoughts and images, spurred by the influx of carbs, rushed in his mind, producing sparkling iridescent whirlwinds of ideas, metaphors, and rhymes.

Then several minutes later, after the haze of satiation dissolved, he opened a new blank page and started typing.

Now he had a norm of 10,000 words he needed to accomplish to get food again. He knew that he would only be able to finish it the next day, but it was better to start right away, while his brain was boosted by this powerful injection of carbs, which at the moment mixed with oxygen in his blood and exploded like gasoline in motorcycle cylinders, producing scintillating cascades of neural activity. He could put down the outlines, the ideas arranged themselves in his mind effortlessly, metaphors were born like cells of algae in the primordial ocean electrified by lightning bolts.

Then he would continue to work, plowing ahead hour after hour, until his energy was drained, and he would drift into sleepiness, slumping in his chair. After twenty minutes of idleness, the laptop would switch off the screen and start playing a random collection of soothing jazz melodies, which the writer wouldn’t hear.

And when he’d wake up in the morning, he would still feel fresh, still retaining a part of carb energy he got the previous day. He would check how far he was from fulfilling the norm. Usually, half of the text was done at that point. 5,000 words, plus-minus. He could finish the rest, powered by the remaining energy. Although closer to the end he would feel drained and hungry, and it would be harder and harder to press on. He could picture it as an indicator in his brain, showing the level of remaining gasoline approaching zero. Then his thoughts would start scattering, and it would be hard to keep in mind what he was just writing about, what should follow? What was the whole idea? And the next idea, and how they should be connected and so on. Then he would be almost completely exhausted, and there would be about 1,000 words left, and he would crawl the remaining distance, fumbling with the starving neural endings, searching for words, ideas, sentences. Then he would make a final spurt, and the file would be ready to submit to the smart verifier program, and there would be food, and then the cycle would start from the beginning.

The food tray went back into the wall, and the writer sat and tried to focus on what he had to put together this time. He experienced a strong flow of energy, but he couldn’t concentrate. Because he was besieged by doubts and distracting thoughts; something irrelevant, like, was he a good writer or he sucked at writing? This thought obsessively buzzed in his head like a wasp, scaring away all other thoughts and preventing the writer from getting back to work. As if it mattered whether he was a good writer or not. At least the smart text verifier program considered him good enough to approve his texts time after time, triggering food dispenser.

Inundated by misgivings, the writer started dozing off, a warm tender haze of sleepiness enveloped him, and then reality slid away in a whirlwind of dissolving colors and sounds. He heard an echo of soothing jazz melody playing somewhere far away.

The writer woke up late at night. Nothing was done. He had to produce 10,000 words, and he didn’t feel that energized. The energy from the last meal swiftly dissipated; there wasn’t much left, and the writer wasn’t sure if it was enough to cover the whole distance. Plus, he felt as if his head was filled with a thick layer of cotton. He felt numb, and the flow of his thoughts dried out. Like, if before it felt like a strong and boisterous sparkling stream, now it was a tiny dying trickle, mixed with mud, crawling among dry barren land and rusty cogs and wheels of the writer’s brain. 10,000 words. It seemed like 1,000 miles through a desert when you are still at the beginning of your route and you already desperately want to drink, and there is no water.

He looked out the window. It was dark outside. The window was bulletproof and it didn’t have any handles because it didn’t open. It was just a solid transparent continuation of the wall. It could just as well be a wall. The door was locked. It was covered with a friendly-looking wooden paneling, but the writer knew that it was made of steel. An inch of high-quality steel. It could just as well be a safe door. The room contained a desk with a smooth dark polished surface, on the top of which stood a wide shining screen of a laptop. Near the desk stood a comfortable leather chair, at the moment occupied by the writer, who fidgeted and nervously gnawed his fingernails in agony.

The room was lit by the soft warm light, coming from round lamps embedded in the ceiling at equal intervals, comprising a nice symmetric pattern. The light was bright, warm, and slightly yellow, like that cast by the sun during a brief period when a sunny day drifts into the evening. Near the wall stood a sofa and bed, covered with a motley, flamboyantly colored plaid.

On the opposite side stood stacks of bookshelves filled with books, magazines, small colorful statuettes depicting horny and hoofy satires copulating with nymphs, and various other animals, including cats in various poses. To the left of the bookshelf was a door leading to the lavatory. It had a source of clean drinking water, a shower cabin, and a cabinet filled with various soaps, shampoos, shaving kits, aspirin tablets, and other paraphernalia.

The room was fully automated, soundproof, and, for all intents and purposes, locked, not leaving any chance for anyone inside to escape. The air was supplied through a ventilation system, and the food was delivered every time, when a fresh load of 10,000 words of original writing was submitted to the smart verifier program, which evaluated if it really was original, coherent text, not containing any plagiarisms or gibberish.

The writer was sitting in the leather chair, hungry, nervously fidgeting in despair, and gnawing his fingernails.

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