The Me in the Mechanics

The Me in the Mechanics

It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. I had reams of paper printed with the amazing ideas I got from the A.I. chat—it was like a treasure trove. I just flowed from whatever it sent back to me. Creativity on tap. So why are so many complaining about it? There’s no rule that says you have to sit for hours with writer’s block. That’s purists’ bullshit—the false narrative of the artist. I’m tired of that victim shit.

I was meeting my writing group that day. It was my turn, along with two others, to read a story and get feedback. I wasn’t worried. I’d got pretty good at prompting A.I., and the results were always solid.

I met Mercy on the way into the room. She was bubbly and warm as usual, always ready with a funny joke. She was clutching her notebook to her chest—it had white daisies on it and a fake lock. She was holding it so tightly, I thought she might squeeze it to death.

When we walked into the room, I smiled at everyone and sat down. There were all sorts of notebooks out, and a few people were on their laptops with colour-coded tabs or scribbling on fancy tablets. I just had my phone on me—what else did I need? I mean, not everyone uses notebooks... do they? I bit my lip.

Anne, the group leader, came in. She also had her notebook—why had I not noticed all these notebooks before? She smiled broadly at us.

“I’m really looking forward to listening to the short stories submitted this week—so many interesting themes,” she said, glancing at me for a nanosecond too long.

I wasn’t feeling so confident anymore. She took a gulp of her tea—way too loud—and the clash of the cup on the glass table was just a little too piercing for my ears.

“So, who wants to start?” She did a quick raise of her eyebrows. “How about you, Deborah?”

Deborah bit her lip and took a deep breath. She leafed through her notebook, the sound of the pages swiping against each other adding to a subtle tension building in me.

“Alright, but it’s still in the messy stage. I didn’t quite finish it...” She stood up.

“It’s called being a writer, dear. We never leave the messy stage!” Alice, one of the other members—her dry sense of humour always hit the spot. Everyone laughed in agreement.

“Well, just to give you a bit of background, I was on the Tube and I noticed a random pinecone on the floor and I wondered how it got there. I imagined that the person who dropped it was probably already missing it because it reminded them of their grandpa... gosh, I know it’s so random... anyway, I went home and did some free writing on it and ended up with this. It’s called Pinecones on Grandpa’s Fridge.”

I remember sitting there thinking, What the fuck? She wrote a whole damn story from a pinecone on a dirty Tube floor? She free-wrote about a bloody pinecone?

Five minutes later...

“Wow, Alice, that evokes so much. It’s funny how we remember the tiniest things after someone has passed—things you didn’t even know had an impact...” Mercy was looking at Alice, her brows furrowed.

“Yes, and the way you linked the broken fridge back to the pinecone—that was so unexpected,” Anne beamed at her, and everyone was nodding in agreement.

“I’d just like to feel the tension more between the grandpa and the mother, because it’s clear something’s not right between them,” Anne said, wringing her hands as if she was literally trying to squeeze out her own tension.

“Thank you for that, Alice. Fantastic stuff. Who’s next?” Her eyes darted around the room.

Mercy stood up faster than my hand could shoot up. No worries, I thought, I got this.

“Great, let’s hear it, Mercy!” Anne gave a little clap.

“This idea was part of a mind map I’d created in my notebook. It just started from the word asphyxiation... I know it’s a bit grim,” she pressed her lips together, “but it got me thinking about how we can often asphyxiate ourselves. Like, almost cut off our own oxygen through people pleasing, or staying in relationships, or holding onto friendships that no longer serve us. It sounds a bit cliché, but we all keep doing it. Anyway, the title is Choked.”

Whoa. All that from one freaking word? I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. The notebooks and squiggles and colourful lines somehow began to feel very intimidating. I noticed my hands trembling a little, and I started doing the hand-wringing that Anne had done—but for a very different reason.

Five minutes later...

“...She put her hands around her own neck, and realised for the first time that she no longer felt choked.” Mercy lowered her eyes and then looked up. Her story was still settling into everyone’s soul, even mine, although I wished it wasn’t.

“I love that you used the backdrop of spring and allergies—that time when many people are literally irritated and choked up because of pollen and blocked noses... it really added to the feeling of being trapped by circumstances or a state of mind. How long did it take you to write that?” Anne tilted her head to the side.

“Well, I’d actually started it months ago—but you know, procrastination and all that. This group gave me a kick up the arse to finish it.”

“That’s what we’re here for. That’s great to know.” Anne let out a very satisfied sigh.

It was obviously me next, and I was feeling like a fucking fraud—all in the space of about fifteen minutes. I mean, I clicked on genre, character, first person and some other stuff and A.I. helped me birth a story. I wasn’t meandering down some busy street or observing anyone at Heathrow Airport while waiting for a flight to Rome. I wasn’t people watching.

My throat was hurting with the tension.

“Last but not least, Suzanna.” She nodded at me, her brown eyes sparkling with warmth.

My voice was suddenly weak and shallow. I didn’t have a backstory or some interesting pathway to my creativity. I licked my lips to stop them sticking together.

“Erm... it’s set in the future... people have robotic eyes and stuff. I just thought it would be interesting to see what, maybe, our bodies would be like in the future... erm, it’s called The Me-Mechanics.”

God, everything I’d just said sounded so fucking vacuous. Did I really keep that title?

Five minutes later...

“She took out her eye and cleaned it, then added a few drops of oil into the back of it. The springs were getting a little rusty, and it reminded her that even machines get old.”

I stared into the distance because I felt absolutely nothing as I read my story. Because it came from nothing. Because nothing in it was me. And I realised that was what was missing. That was what the other stories all had... literally a human touch.

“Yes, well, sci-fi settings and fantasy are ways we can imagine the limits of humans and wonder about the future. There were some interesting ideas in there, Suzanna...” she nodded and looked around at the others.

“Yeah, robots are always interesting. I suppose we’re almost there. I mean, I saw something the other day where a robot was doing an operation—the surgeon was controlling it from another country. Can you believe that?” Mercy’s eyes widened.

I sat down and felt my shoulders droop to my knees.

“Yes, well, thank you, Suzanna. The world-building was amazing—vivid, unearthly. You have a great imagination, I have to say.”

I couldn’t even look her in the eyes. I stared at the ground as if I’d never seen a wooden floor before. I felt like a defendant in the dock—guilty of something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what.

“If you want to tweak it a little, I’d flesh out some of that dialogue so we can really feel what’s going on. Your description of the robots is very vivid, but I feel there’s something missing. I mean, some of them are literally cyborgs, I would say—but it makes you think. Being half human, half machine... it must bring up lots of inner issues...” She scrunched her face up.

“Yeah, like I’d be thinking, Are you real? Who are you? every time I looked in the mirror,” Alice suddenly piped up, as if she was inspired by her own words.

Her words were like a pin in my creative balloon, my so-called ideas like confetti in the wind—pretty for a day, but no one even bothers to sweep them up. She had nailed what I was guilty of.

As we walked out at the end of the session, everyone was chatting, hands flying everywhere, discussing the evening. As we waved goodbye to each other, I turned to Mercy.

“I love your notebook, where did you get it?”

That notebook no longer seemed trivial—it suddenly had gravitas. It was a place to explore. A place to populate with different versions of me. Alice’s words were still churning me up inside.

I realised I needed to be a little messier. And start colouring outside the lines again.