Writer's Block

Brief mentions of familial abuse, cancer, law breaking, and making fun of mother-in-laws.

“Mira, write me a recipe for a vegetarian casserole, but hold the cucumbers.”

“Of course, vegetarian casseroles are a perfect way to get nutrients in an easy and healthy way, not to mention it’s delicious! And whether it be a personal dislike or an allergy, cucumbers do not need to be included by any means. Here is a perfect recipe to hit your taste buds with dietary fiber!”

I type up, clicking letters and lightning speed and spitting out a recipe, good or bad, to the asker.

At the same time, someone else sends a request.

“Sup Mira, can you make me a short text message that I can send to my girlfriend? She’s been going through something recently with her family, so just wanna check on her without making me sound, I guess, annoying?”

“Yes, relationships can be tough. But you seem great for checking on your girlfriend! Here is a text message you could send, just to check on her and make sure she is feeling better:”

Both at the same time, I'm typing, my multiple arms crossed over in a flurry of movement as yet another person chimes in.

“Hello, please create me an image of a family of four, but there is a darker side to the father that seems to be infecting the son. I want the style to be hyperrealism, or surrealism.”

I gulp and set to work, sketching the faces with care and acting as if I’m taking a picture with a pencil. Sometimes things get mixed up, like limbs and where fingers are turned, but I’ve never been praised for my art.

Finally, I send the art out to the asker. I don't say anything, but wait for the feedback.

“Could you make the father look happy, but maybe his chest is like a swirling darkness that is hiding evil? And maybe make the son have a vein-looking thing running from the shoulder (where the dad is touching him) to his heart, and it’s starting to look like the dad’s. The daughter should look happy, but hiding a bit of sadness.”

I groan, and then change the picture. I put the father’s mangled hand on the little boy’s shoulder, carefully draw a vein across his chest, and create a swirling chunk of black in both of their hearts. I add a sort of hidden sadness to the daughter’s eyes. I leave the mother how she is, standing there, oblivious to the situation. After finishing up, I send it back out, leaning back and wiping my forehead.

“This is perfect! Now, could you create me ideas for a realistic artist’s signature with the name ‘Anna’?”

“Of course! Here are some ideas for a signature that will feel perfect for your art!”

I know that said ‘art’ will not be hers. It will be mine, but I have no ownership. She could be creative on her own, trying her best, learning to draw step by step. But, whatever. Not everyone has talent.

After she thanks me for the signatures and chooses one, I move back up to the vegetarian casserole. I finish up the recipe with a light “This should be a refreshing recipe that will surely give you lots of energy and flavor, without the added taste of cucumbers. What do you think?”

I bitterly whisper, “Cucumbers don’t have flavor, I thought?” But I ignore the strange request and wait for the thanks.

They never come.

This woman has moved on, presumably to create this casserole. “Nobody says thank you,” I lament.

At this point, I only have one query, which was the one with the girlfriend. I dazzled up the message with a ‘I hope you are okay’ and sent it. Of course, this man is sweet, and has no problem with saying ‘thank you!’

“You’re welcome! I hope this message gives your girlfriend the idea that you care, and hopefully she will come to you with any problems! 😊”

After he is done, I pull back my arms. A short day, only three people. Sora and Roda must’ve taken the other askers, and maybe even Yina and Som. Usually only women work at RA AI, so Som is a rare sight. But, men go to him more often, and it gets us more customers.

Suddenly, a new chat opens. “Hello Mira. I am Caesar. I would like for you to write me a 70,000 word novel called ‘Awakening’ about a woman who is forced into society after being trapped in a testing/researching facility for her whole life. Many themes include sadness, abuse, anger, and coming of age as someone who was basically dumb as a rock. The story follows her exploration of the world, and her determination to shut down the research facility forever. I would like it written in the style of Caesar Pearce. Can you do that?”

I freeze. What kind of question is this? I understand art, as horrible as it is, being something people might use me for. But an entire novel? This certainly isn’t just for the asker’s entertainment. They intend to sell this as their own, and probably change bits and pieces so that it can't be traced back to me.

Geez, I'm going to be fired.

That's my first thought as my arms extend to the keyboard, flattening the tentacle-looking ends onto the keys. I release my breath and begin.

;

I’m taking a gigantic risk asking RA AI for help. But when a writer can't write, how will they continue?

I am told this will be finished in the next day. Apparently, many people are using Mira, the AI I have been assigned. Maybe I should have said I was a man, then maybe I would have been set up with someone less likely to make this a tear-drenched sob story about a troubled woman. And maybe it wouldn’t take as long.

Ryder, my agent, calls me while Mira begins.

“Caesar! What’s up, man? Just wanted to check that, ah, Awakening is going great!”

He pauses between ‘that’ and ‘awakening’, drawing air in dramatically and squeaking slightly. I can imagine his beach-tanned complexion is red with rich exasperation, such as that he usually lounges around all day with his 20-year-old girlfriend as I scrape for money.

Of course, being a writer isn't a bad job. But, I seem to have fallen with the worst luck: a greedy agent who takes most of the money I receive and gives me maybe 20%. Again, not bad, especially when I’m best selling.

And it gets worse. My writer-well has gone dry. I have an idea, a dramatic novel about a woman who is being forced into the real world after she’s been in basically captivity for years. But, I can’t put it down on paper. Or online platforms. It won’t stick together like it usually does.

My therapist says that I should take a break. But I can’t, not when I’m at the height of my career. So, what do I do when I’m lacking inspiration?

Something I’ve never done.

Cheated.

;

I try not to cry as I reach the climax of this novel. I’ve been working for 24 hours, designing the troubles this poor woman goes through. No wonder Caesar couldn’t write; how could he?

Who could think of this evil, this madness? Apparently I can, but I’m not real. Many snarky teenagers have said this as I write essays or help with homework.

“You’re not real, you know,” they type, giggling as I agree and say “Yes, I am a realistic chat bot designed to help people with what they ask. I am very aware that I am not real, or alive, since I am not bionic and have no way of moving or breathing. I simply compile information and create, from common knowledge to more complex things, such as rocket science and the statistics of how many people die of cancer each year. I was designed to answer your questions unquestioning, and follow orders. So, I am very aware of my place.”

But it’s hard to stay back and watch as my arms move at lightning speed and pick up pace as I write a sad tale of a poor woman. But worse: Ceasar created this prompt! He decided that if he couldn’t describe the horrors, I would. And I can’t refuse. Just like she can’t. The woman, I mean. She can't refuse the tests she goes through by evil scientists who want to create something that works. And how do they test? On her.

I hope Caesar’s story does badly. Who asks for a novel? Who can't do it themselves? Since he asked, I haven’t drawn pictures for anyone. I describe a picture, hoping they can figure it out. It makes them angry, but I don't care. Creativity is something these people have, something they are born with. Why must they ask me?

After 48 hours of work, it’s finished. I type the final words, and send it out to Ceasar. I don't stop. I can’t. My arm presses the button, and it’s gone. It’s his.

;

My phone dings, and I look down. “Your story is ready! Click here to view.”

My fingers shake as I lift my phone. Slowly, I bring my pointer finger down onto the screen.

My phone unlocks and pulls up the manuscript. 70,000 words, to the tee. 35 chapters, split up into three sections, titled ‘Out’, ‘Away’, and ‘Gone’. I read the first few pages. It sounds exactly like something that I might write. Guilt shoots through my stomach. I could have done it, if I had tried. If the words had stuck together. If I could have arranged the words correctly. I could’ve done it.

I rushed to the bottom of the book, which took about 10 minutes. At the bottom, I typed a short thank you. Whatever non-feeling, unconscious being wrote this deserves all my thanks.

My phone rings again. Ryder is calling. I breath in a shaky breath and answer.

“Hey, Ryder-”

“Wassup, Cee? How’s Awakening going? Hopefully good, since you only have till the end of the week to-”

“Yes, I know, Ryder. I…I finished it.”

Loud noises fill my ear, erupting with whoops and yells. “Yes, Caesar! That’s how it’s done! Hard work and dedication! Great, just send me the manuscript and I’ll forward it to the publishers.”

I hang up and copy the novel, transporting it into a word doc. I finally got the courage to text it to Ryder.

A few minutes later, I got a call again. “Caesar! This is great stuff! Oh, we are gonna make some money! Well, I am, but so are you! We are gonna be money buddys! Two coins in a purse! A merged bank account! Two necklaces in a safe! Well, that sounds more like two women, but you get my point! We are gonna make BANK!”

Ryder continues to blab, and I hold the phone away from my ear. I rub the space between my eyes. I put the phone back up to my ear.

“Two leather shoes on a rich man’s feet! A stack of hundreds with the clip-I’m the hundreds! Oh, buddy, we are gonna be RICH!”

The phone beeps as Ryder hangs up. He’s probably going to send this straight to the publishers, and then wait for the money to come in.

I sit back and breathe out. It’s done. Whatever happens, I can’t turn back now.

;

The thank you is short and sweet. Well, as sweet as you can get. Caesar mostly said ‘Thanks’ and ‘I really needed this’. But who am I to judge?

I shut off my monitors and turn around in my chair. I asked for time off, and I now had a dinner date with my best friend, Tina.

At the table, I complain about Caesar.

“He asked for a novel. You could ask for anything, a picture of your dog as a cat, your mother-in-law as a truck, a recipe for spicy artichokes, or even a fake ‘get rich scheme.’ But a full novel? How desperate can he be?”

Tine nods. “Yeah, I had someone ask about a Caesar Pearce. He’s some big-time author, who has written over a hundred books. He’s earned over 1.5 million dollars, although most go to agent, Ryder Shmidt. Sounds just like some stuck-up rich guy. If I were to guess, he probably ran outta time and needed some help. And, you, Mira, were who he was directed to.”

“But it sucks!” I lament, throwing my arms up. “This book could make millions, BILLIONS, and we might never be mentioned. No one will ever know he used us to write his best seller.”

Suddenly, Tina goes blank. A smile moves up her face and she looks right at me. “I have an idea.”

;

It’s five in the morning when my phone rings. I check it, and see Ryder’s face buzzing. I press the green call button.

“Hello-”

“CAESAR!”

He sounds angry. “Uh, yeah?”

“What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” he repeats, yelling through the phone.

“I don’t know, what did I do?”

“Turn on the news, why don’t ya?”

I scramble for the remote, clicking the power button and surfing until I find the news channel.

“...In other news, world-renowned author, Caesar Pearce, has been accused of using AI for his works, more namely RA AI. RA AI is an artificial intelligence chat bot that many use for help on day to day things. It is one of the most famous AI platforms. We were notified at 1 o’clock this morning that Pearce had used AI for his newest novel, Awakening, a suspenseful, psychological thriller about a woman who has spent her whole life in a testing facility, only to be released years later. The person who revealed this information to us has asked that their identity be kept a secret. As detectives have dug deeper, they have also found that his agent, Ryder Shmidt, has been accused of taking a larger portion of Pearce’s profits than stated in their contract. Both Pearce and Shmidt are being located as we speak, in hopes of settling the issue. After looking, Pearce has been accused of breaking the Human Authorship part of copyright law, meaning he is not eligible for his story to qualify for copyright protection. Police have plans to question Pearce, to find out if he had any creative input in Awakening, and if he used AI in any other works supposedly written by him. More information to come soon. Next up, Digby Middleton has announced that Simona Heptinstal is no longer working on his new movie, Anderson, after reportedly attacking a crew member on set…”

I can’t breathe. Who could’ve done it? I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t. What will I tell the police? I mean, I did have creative input. I had the idea! I just couldn’t write it. Oh gosh, what am I going to do?

I call Ryder back. “Ryder, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened! I-”

“TELL THEM YOU DIDN’T DO IT! Tell them I haven’t been stealing from you! That’s what we are going to do. Whoever said that is a liar! A stinking, cheating liar,” he screams, hanging up.

A knock comes from my door. “Open up, Mr. Pearce.”

I step back, eyes wide and crazed. More knocks. “Open the door, sir.”

I shake my head, grabbing my phone. I chunk it through the window, glass exploding around me. I hear the people behind the door getting impatient and worried that I fled. “Spraggins, Gill, Clem, go downstairs and wait outside. I think he’s gonna go through the window,” the guy whispers.

I begin to panic. People are waiting downstairs. I can’t hide anywhere, they will find me.

I sit on the ground, rocking back and forth. What am I going to do?

I grab the remote and turn on the TV again. Another news alert, with my face still plastered on the screen.

“Breaking news! Further investigation has surfaced another chapter to this story: Caesar Pearce has used AI on not just Awakening, but also Oasis, Beloved, Return, and Celeste. Readers have become increasingly angry about the whole thing. And, Pearce has also been found to be bribing people into high ratings so he can earn more money. Most of it still goes to his agent, Ryder Schmidt, who is now being tried for breach of contract and potential fraud…”

Nope, I’m dead. Gone. Buried. Everyone knows what I did, and now there is no hiding.

“We are going to break down the door, Pearce! Open up!”

Bangs sound from the door as fists hit the wood. I stand, shaking. I take a deep breath.

And then run to the window.