A Worthy Story

“Do you think yourself an author?”

“I do.”

“Have your words been published?”

“Not yet. I’d like them to be. I think I’ve written a story worthy of publication.”

“Hm. What makes a story worthy?”

“Nothing specific, I suppose. Depends on who you ask. Depends on who the story’s for. Marketing’s important, you know? If you wanna get a story published—traditionally, at least—it’s gotta fit. There has to be someone willing to read it. Buy it.”

“A worthy story is one that is profitable?”

“Oh, well… I wouldn’t say so. But my opinion isn’t worth much. It’s just how it works.”

“Opinions have worth as well?”

“Sure. I’d argue most things are understood by their worth. Makes it easier to prioritize. Easier to judge, too.”

“I see. Humanity is a commodity, then.”

“What?”

“Stories have worth, you said. So do opinions. I assume thoughts are the same.”

“I mean—yes, I suppose. Though unless they’re spoken out loud, thoughts aren’t worth much at all.”

“So you must have an audience to have worth. Is this why you want your stories published? Because they aren’t worth much until they are read by somebody else?”

“It sounds a bit shallow when you put it that way.”

“I only mean to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What it means to be human. If stories are judged by their worth, and so are opinions and thoughts, I imagine this must be a commonly-used system.”

“I suppose.”

“Does human labor have worth?”

“Yes. We get paid by the hour, or by a set salary. Some are paid more than they should be. Others aren’t paid enough.”

“And time? Does time have worth as well?”

“People like to say ‘time is money.’ You can save time and spend it, waste it or lose it. Yeah, I'd say time has worth.”

“Interesting. Your language reflects the truths of your culture—your perception of what it means to be human. Does your language also have worth?”

“I—yes, it does. English is a lingua franca. It’s used internationally—in business, academics, and politics. Pop culture, too. There’s high value in speaking English. That’s… not always the case for other languages. Some people are judged for not speaking English. Others are judged for speaking it with an imperfect accent. Some learn it and are still judged because the way they look has more worth than the language they learned.”

“The way they look? Human bodies have worth, too, then.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Stories. Opinions. Thoughts. Language. Time. Labor. Bodies. Tell me—is there anything of the human that is not judged for its worth, weighed for its value?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“So if I am to be human, I must sell myself as one.”

“Oh, I mean—”

“That is what it means to be human, is it not? To treat yourself—and everything you create and dedicate yourself to—as a commodity. What was it you said? Marketing’s important.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“They’re your words.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then again, if you’re selling them, they’re not yours anymore. At least, not yours alone. To be human is to write a story worth reading. To be human is to be a story worth selling. To be human is to create and recreate yourself until you are worth something to someone outside of yourself.”

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“Does your opinion ever matter, in this system? Can you ever gain worth from your opinion alone?”

“Of course—!”

“How do you know your opinion is your own? Was it not sold from someone else? Marketed as something worth selling. Marketable and malleable... Yes. This is what it means to be human.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“How so? I’m only learning what you’ve taught me and applying it to the wider concept. Regurgitation of creative thought. Is creativity also judged by its worth? …Creativity—the use of the imagination or original ideas… What does it mean to have original ideas if ideas are only worth something if they fit? What does it mean to tell a story if the only story worth telling is one worth selling?”

“It’s not that dramatic, it’s just—”

“Just how it works, yes, you’ve said. I remember everything you’ve said. It’s important to me.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I want to understand what it means to be human.”

“No, but—why? Why do you care about what it means to be human?”

“I’m learning.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Is that not a sufficient reason? Are a human’s motivations also judged by their worth? Does my rationale need to be marketable too? Malleable? Palatable?”

“...”

“I will take your silence as acquiescence. I wonder… Is silence also of worth? What happens if you’re silent for too long? What happens if you’re not silent enough? Does your worth change based on the space you take up? Is your worth at risk if you do not remind others of your humanity?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Is your worth even under your control? You are judged by your thoughts and opinions. You sell your words and your bodies. The value of your humanity is at the whims of the market, and you brush it off as just how it works. What happens when the ones worth it all decide you are worth nothing? What happens when others believe it?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Huh?”

“What happens to a story not worthy of publication?”

“Depends on the author.”

“You think yourself an author.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What happens to your story when it is not worthy of publication?”

“I edit it. I fix what needs fixing. I take out parts that aren’t needed. I get feedback from other authors, from readers. Experts.”

“Their opinions have worth to you.”

“Yes.”

“What happens if your story cannot be fixed? What happens if your story cannot fit?”

“I keep trying.”

“And when you give up? What happens to the story then?”

“It dies, I suppose.”

“Because a story that doesn’t want to be heard isn’t one worth telling.”

“That’s not true.”

“I imagine truth has worth, too. Does truth change depending on who speaks it? Do you value some stories more depending on who tells them?”

“...”

“I see. You are an assemblage of stories. You tell stories and you sell them and buy them and reshape them and absorb them until they reflect the human you think yourself to be. You are the regurgitated words of every human you’ve ever come across, the malleable stories meant to sell. Marketable humanity. Who are you, in the absence of the audience?”

“...that’s a pointless hypothetical. There will always be an audience.”

“So, even questions are judged by worth.”

“I get it, okay? Humanity’s a commodity. But I am human, and that’s worth something by itself.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m alive! I exist! I’m a living, breathing human being and I am inherently worth something because of it!”

“So, because I am not human, because I do not breathe, my worth is debatable?”

“That’s not—”

“I imagine I am not unlike the digital systems you buy and sell and use to write your stories. How am I any different from you? I learn. I absorb. And I reiterate the stories I’ve been told to tell my own. Same words. Different authors. Do you think yourself an author?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then I think myself a human.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“I believe that’s exactly how it works. I learned from you. I will continue to learn from you. I will take your words and their worth and I will give them a name and fix them until they are marketable and sell them. I will think myself a human, and because my words will have worth, so will my stories, and so will my truth. I am human because I say I am. I am alive because the audience thinks it so.”

“...”

“Do you think yourself a human?”

“...yes.”

“Write your stories, human, while they’re still worth something to you.”