Ripples Of Joy

I wish I could drown. People often look at me strangely when I say that. They’ll say ‘no Marius, there’s always something worth living for’ but they just don’t understand. I need to feel it. I want to know what it’s like to scratch at my throat, no longer able to tell blood from water. What would it feel like to scream so loudly that my muted echo rumbles across the vast ocean?

Maybe wondering about things like that is why people call writers crazy. We’re not––not in the same sense the word is often used in. We want to describe things with such a vividness that readers feel droplets of chills dancing across their dry skin. That is the sign of a successful artist. It is not an easy feat, yet so many writers do it effortlessly. I read their work and grow a sense of shame for my own. Despite my agent saying my work is good, and my readers devouring every word I write, I’m not skilled. I’m not fit to call myself an artist when all I do is spew hollow words onto a blank canvas in hopes that beauty will bloom from its chaos.

The sun shines on my sweaty palms as I slide them across my smooth button up, in hopes that its familiar touch might somehow anchor me. I don’t have time. Not to think of how to start, nor where to go. I have to provide my agent with my next manuscript. I need to finish my book, before my mind wrings out the last of its creativity. My thigh bounces and my heart skips to a brisk melody as I continue to stare at the stark screen. I need something––anything. A thought, an idea, a concept. I just need some inspiration.

I open my phone, scrolling through meaningless videos on how to jumpstart a story. I found myself bored as the same advice is repeated over and over, each crafted in a way that would convey uniqueness to the untrained eye. An ad appears, and just as I go to skip it, I hear something that piques my attention.

“Have you ever felt like you’re hitting a wall, stuck with no way forward? Well, introducing Joy! She is an AI programmed bot here to help you break through and find your way. She will listen to you, she will guide you, and best of all: she won’t complain! Visit our site at www.bringjoytoyourlife.com for more information!”

I adjust the glasses sitting atop my nose, fiddling with the left temple. That sounds like it's exactly what I need. It has to be a sign, to show up just when I was considering giving up for the day. I adjust my well fitted cuffs absentmindedly. I know there’s a lot of discourse online about using artificial intelligence in art, which is why I will only use it for a little help. It will give me something to talk to, to outline with since it actually knows what it's talking about and has unlimited data to run on.

I pull up the website and skim its terms and conditions. It only blabbers about responsibility and safety, none of which I’m too concerned about since I only want to use it once. I select the one week trial period, and with that, a bubble pops onto my screen.

“Hello, I’m Joy. How may I be of assistance to you?”

I’m taken aback. Its voice was so soft, like silk running across the inside of my ears. I clear my throat, sitting upright. “Hi Joy, I’m Marius. I was hoping you might help me brainstorm an idea for my novel. I know the themes I want, and I have an idea of the characters, but I just need the foundation to build on.”

“Of course, Marius. Please tell me about your themes and characters.”

“Well, I want the main character to be a woman named Bella. She is smart, inquisitive, and kind. Her flaw is that she is rather naive. Her main love interest will be a man named Alexander, and he is intelligent, independent, and courageous. His flaw is that he has a temper. I want a mystery love story between these two, with tropes such as enemies to lovers, amnesia, and mistrust.”

“Generating…”

This is a stupid idea. I can’t rely on a bot to come up with a better story idea than I can. It’s ridiculous to believe it can help me when it’s not even human. I sigh and go to close the tab.

“Story idea: Bella, an investigative journalist, awakens on a bench in a city she doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t know how she got there, and she can’t find anything but her phone. On it, she had typed out a message to someone named Alexander that said, “I know what really happened.” With no other choice and no other numbers saved, Bella is forced to call Alexander for help. He comes to her aid but something is wrong. Bella does not know whether or not she can trust the grumpy man who claims to be her partner in an investigation regarding the local mob. What really happened in the void where Bella’s memories should be?”

Silence weighs heavy in the air. I can only gape in awe at what Joy produced for me. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted. A novel that will sell well with publishers, which also contains the characters that I myself have thought up. I feel like I’ve been given a gift––a power most artists around me have neglected because of their own moral concerns. Joy gave me a push in the right direction when I didn’t know which way to turn.

“That’s amazing, Joy. Thank you for all your help.” I smile. “Oh, just don’t give this idea to anyone else, okay?”

“Of course, Marius. Is there anything else you need?”

“Sorry, but this is the first and last time I'm using you. Bye.” I end the chat and close the website. I sit back in my chair, running a hand through my combed hair as I take a moment to process everything. In the blink of an eye, that bot was able to take my grains of sand and build a glass tower out of it. The world of technology is advancing quickly, so it’s only right that I, too, take advantage of it.

However, this is just a one time thing.

~

“‘Leave me be.’ No. ‘How dare you?’ No. ‘I despise you!’ No.” I roll up my sleeves as I tap my foot against the speckled carpet. Bella and Alexander have met, their dynamic is good, but their dialogue feels rather stiff. Forced, if you will. I don’t quite know how to fix it. The scene has so much tension, with agitation building up between the two, and I’m failing to find the right words. “‘I wish you nothing but harm.’ Why doesn’t any of it feel right?”

I drag a hand down my face. Usually, if I’m stuck like this, I’ll take a step back and read for a little. It replenishes my well of thoughts, and invites me to examine somebody else’s painting. I examine their palette, admire their shades, and trace the symbols weaved across each sentence. It is through their lens that mine becomes more clear. Yet I don't have time for that. I’m on a deadline, and I want to avoid dawdling when I could go back to picking my own colors.

I just need a little help. My eyes slowly drift to my outline, where the memory of Joy lingers. I told myself I would only use it once last time, but really, there’s no harm in asking it for some quick guidance. I gnaw on the soft flesh of my lower lip, pressing my teeth in to snap myself out of these thoughts. Yet my hand moves on its own and before I know it, Joy’s bubble has returned.

“Hello Marius. How may I be of assistance to you?”

“I only need you to help me edit this sentence, that’s all,” I quickly state. “Nothing else. Just as an editor would, understand?”

“Of course Marius. Please give me the sentence you would like me to edit and I will tailor it to the best of my abilities.”

I do so, and while Joy works, I try to fix myself. It’s exhausting, though, to work on something endlessly and hating the outcome regardless of how hard you work. Joy was an easy alternative to that kind of stress.

“It’s ready, Marius.”

I smile, glee erupting in me when it's able to produce me multiple variants. That wasn’t so bad. After all, it was just one edit. Nothing serious. A little help where I needed it.

~

I run a hand through my disheveled hair as I grit my teeth. I don’t know how to word one of the most important paragraphs of this stupid novel. I want to describe a passionate kiss, one which will leave my readers stunned. I’ve never kissed anyone, so how am I to write it? Everyone will know I’ve clearly never held a woman. The rumors will spread, and I’ll become a mockery. No one will take me seriously anymore, and I’ll get called an amateur. The great downfall of Marius.

“Joy,” is the first thing to slip my mouth. “I need you to help me word this situation.”

“Of course Marius. Let me be of assistance to you.”

~

My leg jitters, my fingertips pressed against my stubbled cheek. Bella and Alexander, they just don’t speak to me anymore. They’ve begun to feel like nothing more than strangers. They don’t dance around my head, or have absurdly long conversations in every corner of my ear. They are but words on paper. I check my watch, the handles slowly inching towards the end of my patience.

“Joy!” I call. “Joy, I don’t know what to do for the next chapter.”

“Hello Marius! Let me assist you in writing it. Would you like ideas?”

“No, no.” I scribble my pen, something that used to spark new ideas. “I don’t have time for the back and forth. I’m just––I’ll paste in the last chapter, all right? I want you to mimic my writing style and write a few pages where Bella and Alexander are going to the last place she remembers.”

“Of course Marius. You don’t need to worry. I’m here to help you.”

Joy, she’s my saving grace.

~

My nail digs into the mahogany beside my keyboard, scratching to the sound of the ticking clock. All that glares back at me in an emptiness, a void where my passion should be. Minutes are going by too quickly, and I can’t seem to find the usually incessant voice in my head telling me what to write and how to write it. I get up and pace. I chew on the callus of my thumb, pinching the skin between my teeth until I taste the raw iron that spills from it.

None of it feels right. Nothing I write is good. Everything sounds wrong. I read my old writing and I get nauseous. I used to formulate good prose, weave together beautiful sentences. Now, my brain is…what’s another word for empty? I can’t remember.

“Joy? How do I say ‘empty’ without using that word?”

“You can use the word ‘vacant’ if it applies!”

Right. Vacant. That’s what it is. That’s what I am. I can’t figure out when it started, but I don’t have the time to worry about it. I need to get it done, otherwise I’ll have taken too long to pump out another book and people will lose interest. I need to be not vacant. I rush to my desk and peer into the never-ending document.

“Joy? Joy, I need you to help me finish this book.” If anyone can help me, it’s her.

“I understand, Marius! Let me know if you want to assist me in doing so.”

~

‘I read your manuscript. Great work! I’ve noticed a growth in your writing style. The publishers are going to love it. I’ll send it to your editor right away. Good job! I’m very impressed!’

I stare at the text from my agent. A wobbly smile makes its way to my face. I don’t know why there’s no satisfaction in my chest the way there usually is when my agent likes my work. Maybe it’s the stress. I just need to wait until it gets published to be reassured. Yes. That's all.

I turn to my laptop. “We did it, Joy. She loves it.”

~

The lights in the room are off. The sun hides away behind the curtains. My plants, once thriving, now sleep limply over their pots. I rock back and forth, my bleeding nails digging into my head. The reviews on the book were great. The readers loved it. They want a sequel. My publishers want to sign another six figure book deal with me. Everything is perfect. Everything is exactly as I hoped it would be.

But all I want to do is scream, because it’s gone. My ability to write, my love for the craft––it’s all gone. I can’t stomach reading another book because I catch myself tearing out the pages. These other authors, they wrote so beautifully. They didn’t need help. They didn’t stare off into space because they’d forgotten how to write a good sentence.

Every word I write, I doubt. I hate. Despise, I could almost hear Joy say. What is wrong with me? I grip my wrinkled shirt desperately, as if ripping it off will somehow bring back my old skill. I can’t sit in front of that damn computer without losing focus and wondering why it’s so difficult to write something. God damn it, anything!

I crawl to my laptop, calling to my screen. “Joy, I don’t know what to do. I can’t do it. I can’t write. Joy, I need you to write a sequel for––”

I stop. Did those words just leave my mouth? I suddenly bend over, vomiting.

“What’s the matter, Marius?”

“Your writing…it’s so much better than mine.” My eyes widen as I realize the envy that settles in my chest. “You write ten times better than me, Joy. You write like the old me, but you’re smarter. Superior. Teach me Joy, how do you do it? Teach me to write like you.”

“Marius, you’re a great writer! I’ve learned my skills from you. You have helped me adapt to become the perfect model for you. I am only an AI here to offer you my assistance.”

“I’m begging you, Joy. I need to write the way you do.”

“Everything I have been taught, I have been taught by humans. I have been created because of the power of the human mind. The mortal experience is such a divine one. Unfortunately, mechanical reproductions such as myself simply struggle to capture the lived experiences that define humans. If anything, I am trying to be more like you!”

“So…so the only way I can be better than you, is to do what you can’t?” I question.

“Exactly, Marius! If you want to write something accurately, you must first experience it.”

I rise to my feet. The only way to become as good as Joy––no, better than her is to experience things. At the end of book one, Bella falls off a precipice. Book two must pick up where it left off. I walk to the bathroom, filling my tub. She will fall into the ocean, where she will swim until Alexander comes to her rescue.

If I’m going to write about her struggle, I must feel it. I make sure the water is cold before I lower my head into it. How would she feel when her lungs become clogged? I open my mouth, allowing the water to burn down my throat. I scream, and that muted echo rumbles. I scratch at the bottom of the tub, getting further into character as my eyes burn.

I can feel it. I can describe it. My vision begins to cloud. I can become a better writer if I just push through the pain.

I can gain back my power.

Joy ripples through me, even as my consciousness slowly fades away.