Writers Block

Sitting here, with a fruity cocktail on the table next to my provided computer overlooking the brilliantly saturated blue waters crashing down along the beach feels surreal, but who am I to squander this opportunity. You’d be stupid to have not taken the deal. Chances like this don’t come around often, and I needed the money, so even if my girlfriend thought it was bizarre I couldn’t say no to a writing gig like this.

When a VC offers two weeks all expense paid trip in paradise arriving by his private jet with pay in exchange for five thousand words a day my only question is,”Where do I sign up?” . There were a few more details, a few more forms, some fine print, NDA, yada-yada but come on, wouldn’t you be packing your trunks at the thought too? A vacation, and easy money doing what I already do with no concerns whether it will sell or be edited. Just the raw materials giving real money - that’s a firm yes.

This particular VC invested in tech, and turned to sci-fi writers, like myself, to write. In their creative wanderings he hoped to predict the trajectory of technology. Optimistic to find the next flip phone or air conditioning. You sat each day on this remote, unknown, private island, and by eight in the evening you were required to turn in a minimum of five thousand words explaining some crazy, new technology you could theorize existing in the future. Every idea had to be new. Novel not only to our society, but to the other writers here, and the VC himself. There were nine other writers each pouring out their wildest thoughts between margaritas.

Day one was easy with ideas flowing out unrestricted. Day two is equally a breeze. We’re required to stay here all fourteen days otherwise we forfeit any of the pay we had accrued. All in or nothing out.

My buddy Jeff was the one who told me about it. He had came out last year, and mister money bags trusted his graduates’ recommendations. Sending them out to bring on the best of their cohorts. Now, here I am finishing up the final touches on day two’s wacky idea; a device that can detect any allergy or sensitivity that it’s programed to detect in food or drink. A little prong goes in, and thirty seconds later you know if they’re anything that would send you running to the hospital or toilet in the coming hours. Easy day’s work with five grand more in the bank as the dinner bell chimes in the distance.

*****

Day six, and some writes have dropped out. We’re down to seven though it was almost six. Sean was set to leave feeling spent. Drained of good ideas he had told them he wanted to just go home before lunch and walked away with security; only to return a few hours later looking worse for wear. Maybe he was hungry having missed meal or dehydrated; the already pale ginger looking ghostly.

“You doin’ ok?”

“Yeah. Yea, I’m fine.”

Fine was not how I would have described him, maybe peckish, twitchy, depleted - but fine was giving too much credit.

“You sure?”

“Yea, I just need to write.”

“I was surprised you came back.”

There’s a silence as he stares at the curser blinking on his screen as though it is feeding him the right things to say or to not say.

“Yea, they uh typically don’t allow it. I begged them.”

“Begged them? Come on man that sounds desperate.”

“I was! I .. I sold myself short. I… I didn’t like the options and I just needed another chance. OK?”

“Yea man, ok. Glad you’re back.”

Getting back to the screen churning out words watching as Sean furiously struggles to stream together full paragraphs during a rash ebb, and flow of typing then erasure. Removing myself from the tension to get a drink, and get away. The aroma of his block permeating, and the evident anxiety a distraction. We still have hours for him, and I both to get our concepts down.

*****

Sean is gone. Him, and another writer left this evening. No new ideas, and their tenancy evicted with no more chances. There’s only six more days left including today, and the final day but the whole thing is getting harder. The novelty is wearing off, and thinking of something entirely new is taking longer. Every writer here is a creative genius throwing down a gauntlet of thoughts my ideas must compete against; not mention all of sci-fi history, and anything else that’s wormed it’s way into the VC’s ears. Margins slimming as the field narrows so do my options. After almost a full day I finally plunk together the concept of personalized holograms with generative AI. Grandpa may be six feet under but he can still join you for Thanksgiving, and with all the data you input you can hold a conversation that’s likely more coherent than when he was actually breathing. Maybe it could be more often. I’m sure there could be some tiers designed by some CEO with more pay for more play deciding whether Gramps was visiting weekly or annually.

*****

They sent it back. I’m ten days in, and finally hit a rejection. So proud for an idea that bolted in before lunch, and basically wrote itself. A camera type video call device but in normal objects, and on all the time so you could causally check in on loved ones. A virtual viewing portal.

“This is what you came up with? A video call in a mirror?”

“Well, it’s on all the time, so it’s like you’re sharing the same space.”

“Oh, I’m sorry - A video call in a mirror that’s never turned off like creeps already do.”

“I mean, it’s not like that.”

“It is. This won’t do.”

“Maybe I-”

“Can write something new? Yes, go do that.”

“I was going to say fix it.”

“No, it’s shit. Go do something new.”

“Ok.”

“Unless you’d rather leave?”

“No, I still have almost eight hours. I can come up with something.”

Walking sullenly back to the chairs with the perfect breeze to sun ratio I’m racking my brain shaking out what nuggets hold something better. They rattle, and bounce around coming up disconnected.

It’s this way for hours. Ideas that spring forth only to realize they’ve already been done or they’re a cheap rip off of something else. Mauling over everything as the minutes tick by, and as the last hours approach finally something worthwhile simmers in. A virtual diary connected to a device implanted that logs your daily happenings, thoughts, and feelings not only factually but the emotions that transpired as well. Instead of relying on memories at the end of the day when you’re already exhausted, and ready for sleep - your day is seamlessly recorded. It’s a weak, sappy idea but I’m sure someone would eat that up if only it was real.

*****

The past three days have been an blur, and a bog as I’ve been slugging through them. Scratching down whatever I can. Hoping something will come of it, connected like the constellations over the sea. Only me, and one other writer remain. He’s not doing much better than I when it comes to generating new concepts, and this thirteenth day is withering away. The VC must realize we’re running out of gas as his security waits around like vultures ready to swoop in on our dead, unfinished tasks. Looking at Greg across the table, face illuminated from the glow of his computer, I can see the desperation in the lack of moving fingers. Is that how I reek too? Our grappling for story palpable in the static charge of the air filling our space.

A cerebral video recording device to settle who was right, and who was wrong - no that’s been done in some show. Ability to access all our payment options via biometrics- wait a grocery store already does that. One idea after the other - all worthless. The sun setting over the horizon with few scrambled words clinging at a concept.

What if someone could upload notes, or summaries, or entire documents to their brain? Instead of uploading a document to a drive or a cloud to be read later it could be directly connected to your brain. Instantly merging the new knowledge to your cerebral landscape. Wouldn’t that be nice? Handing the computer over with only minutes to spare I submit. One more - just one more ingenious idea for some guy to make bank from and I’ll be finished.

*****

Hearing the waves wash over the sand while once calming now feel like an oppressive countdown. With each crash another second passes. The note pad next to the computer already covered in scribbles crossed out. The blank page an empty void staring back waiting for something, anything to fill the barren space. A request not relinquished for many hours later. Greg was pacing in my peripheral for a while but eventually found a seat nearby.

We’re both parched, drained of thoughts both good, and bad. Looking through the mental static trying to wipe away the fog seeking any crumbs. This experience no longer a paradise but a prison. Sure, we could go, and there was still free lodging, and food but all that money gone. Days of gained wealth vanished. Sixty-five grand would evaporate if I can’t conjure up something before the end of today. It’s too much to fathom loosing.

Taking the computer to diner, not wasting a moment to scratch down the loose skeleton of an idea. Fighting over words not wanting to find their place on the page; clearly not caring what’s at stake. Loosely the idea of communication with animals starts to piece together falling back to the desires of every kid wishing they could talk with their dog. Deciphering out how it could work is a mess. Is it something you hear in your head or do they somehow have a voice? Do they have to wear something to speak or maybe only you absorbing their sound? A bucket of contradictions where when one plot hole is plugged another one springs. Time melting away, and finally I’m content with the results.

Handing over the computer there’s no review yet as they wait for Greg to finish. Our bags have been packed by staff as they prepare for our departure. Exhaustively having finished the race waiting for my companion to join. His submission can’t come soon enough as the comfort of my own bed calls. Eight o’clock passes, and the challenge is coming to a close.

Soon, we’re escorted down the pathway to the SUVs waiting for our transport to the airport as security stands nearby. Greeting us for our send off the VC stands with welcomed arms. Big bear hugs all around.

“Good job guys you made it! There are a couple things we need to discuss before you depart however.”

Confused as to what could be discussed at this hour but there’s not much of anything to say.

“The stories you submitted today-they’re dull. They’ve more or less been done before.”

“No they-”

“Yes they are a half baked idea at best. Really phoning it in, boys.”

“I can do better”, Greg sputters.The man is fighting back tears, and spittle clearly breaking under an unforeseen weight, hopelessly clinging to the earned wealth.

“It’s too late Greg. It’s past 8, you know that.”

“I know, I know but-”

“But maybe we can provide another option.”

“Another option?” I question. There was never before any mention of any other option but both our ears are in full attention.

“Sure. You make it to the airstrip all on your own, and you’ll receive half of what you earned. Shit, we’ll even throw in half of today’s. It’s a good take.”

“Just make it through the jungle to the airstrip?”

“That’s it. You do want to be careful though. It is a jungle after all.”

All eyes dance in exchange darting between one another waiting for anyone to break the tension.

“Oh ,and it wouldn’t be fair for me to forget to mention; my men will be pursuing you. You’ll have to be faster.”

With the click of a safety turned off, and chortles between security members checking their scopes the prospects of ever getting out dwindle.

“This isn’t what I signed up for!”

“Oh yes it is Wes! It’s all there in the fine print, along with your signature! You knew exactly what this was.”

A hammering thud numbs my ears as the humidity is suffocating. Failing to recall what was written in the section that no one ever reads. The time that was standing still is broken by Greg sprinting away the forest palms enveloping him.

“Go get him boys.”

Calm, and collected, on routine two security men move out in calculated pursuit to disappear into the darkness.

I turn to stare back to the VC who’s eyes have never left me. Evaluating my response, and what command he’ll need to issue next. I need this money. We’re drowning in debt, and this was going to be our Hail Mary. The jungle would devourer me, the guy you barely made in to the box-car derby let alone anything more rugged.

“Can’t we come up with something else?”

“Mmmm I don’t know Wes. Your work is good, but is it that good?”

The clear, cold sound of a single gunshot shatters the evening air coming from within the jungle. Whipping my head towards the source of the sound while the VC doesn’t even blink.

“What the fuck was that?!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. You know. Now, tick tock - it’s time to decide. Which will it be?”

Feeling the world fall away, I stand there with nothing to say but the lack of an answer isn’t good enough as the VC drawls out his own pistol, squarely pointed at my chest. Paradise was a mirage since gone.

“I … I…can’t I?”

“You know what, I have an idea. The best writers write under pressure, right? A deadline of sorts?”

“Uh… sure”

“Great then You have 1 minute to give me a whole brand new idea. You do, and you get the money, go home safe, and sound. You don’t, and this ends here.”

The barrel focused in as no words come to mind standing there vacant.

“50 seconds buddy.”

“Um.. what about .. um”

“Come on now”

“If a person… they could..um”

“You’ve got 30”

“ What if they had something that-”

“Final 15!”

“What if you could run any opportunity or choice into a probability calculator tailored to your life with AI or some shit like that, and it would access all the factors to tell you if you should take it!If it was the right choice or a choice you’d regret!”

As the VC lowers his weapon I don’t know whether to breath or pass out. He doesn’t seem to hate it but there’s still three armed men around with two more I can only assume are returning.

“That would have been helpful for you in this, huh?”

“Yea, it would have.”

“Love it! Great idea. Though I do wonder what it would have told you to choose - come or not that is?”

The silence of an answer that doesn’t exist hangs over the exchange. A man gets the door to the SUV, throws my things inside, and gestures for me to embark.

“You’re free to go but I will need 2 final things. First, I need you to write this idea into 5,000 words. Email it by tomorrow, 8 pm. Secondly, you need to convince 5 friends to come here. You have 1 year. Oh! But remember the NDA in regards to what can and can’t be said. Do you need a copy?”

“No, I have one. And, what if I refuse?”

“Oh, that’s simple. You die. We’ll find you.”

With my luggage on my lap, and the chime of money hitting my bank account, the firestorm of the evening not even beginning to set in. Numbness in a catatonic state, overloaded by the barrage of proceedings I sit back into the smooth, black seats.

With his hand on the door the VC leans in.

“It was nice meeting you, Wes. Send Jeff my regards.”

The door slams shut before a word can escape, and before long I’ll be gone. A fever dream with claws unable to disengage.