The Writer

by Thomas Nevin Huber ©1993

    The writer carefully considered what he would write. He pondered the ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to get off work. He thought of the setting he would use for his story. He carefully considered what he would call his next story.
    Later that night he sat down before his computer and glanced once again at the page sitting in front of him. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he thought about the audacity of those that had irritated him.
    He carefully, ever-so-carefully prepared the words that would make up the first page of the manuscript. This was the most important page, he had been told. Without getting this page just so, the material would never be read, would never be considered, would never receive so much as a second thought.
    He sighed to himself as he sipped the soft drink, being careful not to spill it onto his keyboard. He scratched a persistent itchy nose, backspacing over his mistakes caused by the errant irritant. He chuckled at his (supposed) humor as he typed the words, which in turn appeared magically on the screen.
    He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. He’d get an accurate word count later, produced by his word processor’s spelling checker.
    He finished entering his address, and provided two phone numbers – one where he could be reached during the day, and another where he could be reached at night.
    Then he tapped the ENTER key several times with the pinky of his right hand to provide just the right number of spaces.
    The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the screen. A smile crossed his lips as he paused, then keyed in the code that would apply the appropriate weight and size to the letters.
    He typed ‘The Writer,’ and again tapped the ENTER key to drop to the first line of text . . .

    The writer carefully considered what he would compose. He pondered the ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to meet him after her work. He thought of the setting he would use for his story. He carefully considered what he would call this, his next story.
    Later that night he sat before his computer and glanced once again at the fax sitting in front of him. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he thought about the audacity of those that barred his way.
    He made sure the room was secure and no errant sounds would make their way to the pickup on the screen in front of him. He tapped the record key and carefully, ever-so-carefully prepared the words that would make up the first page of the manuscript. This was the most important page, he had been told. Without getting this page just so, the material would never be read, would never be considered, would never receive so much as a second thought.
    He sighed to himself as he paused and sipped the soft drink. He continued, but had to pause several times to scratch a persistent itchy nose. Pressing the backspace key, he watched as it erased the words on his screen, caused by the errant irritant. He chuckled at his (supposed) humor as he respoke the words, which in turn appeared magically on the screen.
    He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. He’d get an accurate word count later, produced by the word processor’s grammar/syntax checker.
    He finished entering his address, and provided two phone numbers – one where he could be reached during the day, and another where he could be reached at night.
    Then spoke the magic word, “Title” and watched as the program provided just the right number of spaces. The computer paused, waiting with infinite patience for him to speak the words.
    The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the screen. A smile crossed his lips as he paused, then said, slowly and distinctly, “The Writer.”
    He paused, then added, “End title,” and again watched the cursor find its way down the screen, ready to add the words of the story to the screen . . .

    The writer carefully considered what he would write. He pondered the ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to finish he day at work. He thought of the setting he would use for his story and he carefully considered what he would call his next story.
    Later that night he sat down in his favorite chair, the composer next to him. He glanced once again at the screen in front of him. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he thought about the audacity of those that barred his way.
    He picked up his headset, and tapped each of the sensitive pickups. The computer didn’t like his actions, and beeped a sour note at him.
    He cleared his conscious mind of any stray thoughts that might distract him and put the headset over the crown of his head. It reminded him of a small prayer cap he’d seen worn many, many years before. He couldn’t remember the significance of the cap and didn’t care.
    The screen reflected his random thoughts in patterns that made no sense. No mind. He hadn’t given the all-important mental command to begin. He carefully adjusted the temple and frontal lobe pickups and watched the screen bounce and glide images across it’s face.
    For amusement he pictured a pretty girl, then quickly replaced it with a view of his wife, sitting in front of the crafting machine that she used to sew, knit, darn, and crochet for her booth in the local craft store.
    Satisfied that everything was in place, he relaxed and cleared his mind.
    “Begin,” he uttered to himself. The screen snapped to a page-white display. “Prepare first page heading,” he instructed and watched as the words appeared quickly on the screen.
    An errant itch distracted him, and as he scratched his nose, the words tore from side to side.
    “Damn,” he swore to himself, and watched as the words turned deep shades of blood-red color, before fading from sight.
    “Begin,” he reinstructed. He wouldn’t let the errant irritant bother him again.
    He sighed to himself as he lipped the soft drink straw and was rewarded with a refreshed draught of the liquid. He smiled at his (supposed) humor as he watched the word reappear magically on the screen.
    He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. It would fill in later, when he instructed the machine to finish. Then before the final count was dropped into place, the computer would quickly check all aspects of the story, including the plausibility, according to the level of science and fiction he’d programmed earlier.
    He checked the material on the screen, making sure the appropriate computer address including a target for daytime and nighttime.
    He thought ‘title’ and watched as the cursor jumped to the middle of the page, waiting for his thoughts.
The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the screen. A smile crossed his lips as he paused, then formed the words in his mind, only to see them appear in the appropriate weight and size on the screen. It read, ‘The Writer.’

    The writer carefully considered what he would write. He pondered the ideas as he waited for his daughter to arrive through the transitube from her work. He thought of the setting he would use for his story. He carefully considered what he would call his next story.
    Later that night he sat in his favorite chair and spoke quietly. “Composer,” he said, “Prepare the following story for submission to,” he paused as he glanced at the reject next to the name on the pad. The corporate name was all he needed.
    “Waiting,” the composer spoke back. It had finished his task.
    ‘Title’ ran across the stage of his mind. ‘The Writer’ appeared in bold headlines over the stage. It was set. He was ready. He began . . .

    The writer carefully considered what he would write. He pondered the ideas as he waiting for his daughter to arrive at the transport station in their living room.
    The composer prepared the first page, complete with his name, grid location, and job code, in case the editor wanted to reach him during the day.
    He thought of the setting he would use for his story and carefully considered what he would call his next creation. The thought struck and was set into the machine. The story would be, ‘The Writer.’ He pictured the opening sequence . . .

    The writer was satisfied with his results. Keying the ‘send’ key, he let the manuscript feed through the modem, to come out the other end, in the editorial office, complete, with proper typography, spacing and all – just like the editor wanted it. He leaned back, then looked over at the rejection letter and chuckled. Ah, he thought, if it were only so easy...


I wrote this one because I was angry. It took just about an hour and was the result of receiving a rejection letter for one of my submissions.
    Normally, rejection letters don’t bother me, but this particular one caught my eye for several reasons. First, the editor of the magazine was allegedly willing to work with new writers and help them get established. Second, he had written and published a number of articles on the art of writing for the market. And finally, his magazine was one of the best and most successful in the genre.
    Because the editor had written a number of “tips” for “how to” writing books, I submitted my stories figuring that I’d get at least a fair reading.
    So much for my thinking.
    The rejection note was unacceptable, not necessarily from what it contained, but the way it was presented. I mention this because the event took place during the years that I served as a technical writer. Therefore, I knew a little about publishing (before becoming a technical writer, I was the editor for a computer magazine).
    What was wrong with the rejection letter? First, it was a very bad photocopy. Second, the original street address of the firm had been whited out and typed over (and that was photocopied). Remember, it wasn’t that I was upset that they didn’t accept the story; it was that they didn’t have the courtesy to send a “clean” rejection slip.
    But the final straw was that when I started reading the letter – really reading it – I realized how badly it was written. Not only were these folks in the publishing business (and had been for many, many years), but I expected decently written material from them. After a few hours and in the meantime, going after my daughter, I came up with the idea for this story.
    Copiers, as most of you know, tend to lose the quality as you make copies of the copies, generation after generation. Therefore, the idea was that each generation of the story would be published in a lighter typeface, until you could barely make out the words.
    That was the way I sent the story to the magazine, along with a letter telling them what I thought about their rejection notice. I did not offer the story for publication to them, and didn’t hear anything back. A later submission – Bradley – received a newly typeset and “clean” rejection letter, so I think I made my point.
    This is also the only story that I set in our own world, starting with the here and now of our society and technology. Now that several years have passed several “predictions” have already failed to come to pass (that is, science and technology took a different course). Keeping in mind the date of the story, and the conditions of the time, I wrote this, peering as it were, “twenty minutes” into the future... for each iteration of the story.
    Normally, stories about writers are never published, but because of the circumstances surrounding this story, I decided to offer it to the electronic marketplace. And it was accepted! It took some fancy formatting, complete with the frames of pages dropping the reading deeper and deeper into the future, until the last paragraph (which was not in the original sent to the “disgraced” publisher) brings us back to the present time.

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