My Precious Book

MY PRECIOUS BOOK

My phone rang. I ignored it. I knew who it was. And, I didn’t want to talk to her.

As I picked up the phone to decline the call the name Ellie Walker was displayed at the top of the screen.

Yup, I was right. My agent. I placed the phone faced-down on my desk.

Ding.

Damn it! She was texting me now. Pretty soon, she’d be sending me an e-mail, or showing up at the door, or sending me a registered letter! I felt panic start to rise.

I was royally screwed. My manuscript was overdue—really overdue—and the publishers were getting restless. I had promised them, and Ellie, that I would have something for them a month ago. And I still had squat. I hadn’t written a word, let alone an entire book.

I stared at the cursor on the blank screen—blink, blink, blink. It was taunting me.

You should have worked harder on the book, a little voice in my head said. You gave them your word.

I’d spent the advance. Of course I had. I was sure that I would have the book finished by now. But I didn’t. I’d lied to everyone—myself included. Ellie said that the publishers wanted the first three chapters, but I’d convinced everyone that I didn’t feel comfortable doing that; that I preferred finishing the entire book before sharing it—no sneak peeks.

I snorted. I hadn’t even started. There was nothing to sneak a peek at.

My book blurb had so much promise. That’s why Ellie had shopped it around. And, she made it happen—it was picked up by a small publishing house, and a modest advance was agreed on. Well, modest to them, not me. I was able to take a leave of absence from my job to write. In theory I would have the time and money to create my masterpiece.

But I hadn’t done that. Instead, I squandered the time and security my advance had given me. I spent endless hours “researching”—if researching meant watching cat videos and Real Housewives. And, to be honest, the time had flown by. Before I realized, my opus was due. Only there was no opus. There was no outline. There was no title. There was nothing. Just the blurb— one hundred and seventy-three words describing the book that I had never written, never even started.

I sat back and looked at the empty screen, the flashing cursor still mocking me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, that tiny voice in my head said. I ignored it. I knew what it was going to suggest.

You’re not the only person using it, the voice continued. I shook my head.

“No way,” I said out loud.

How many other authors use it? Probably more than you or anyone else realizes, said the voice.

“I’m not a cheater,” I started.

But you are desperate.

I shut my eyes and just detached. Everything was fine. Let it go. Let it all go. No one was waiting for a book. My agent was not losing her mind because I hadn’t written a single word. The publishers didn’t want their advance back because I hadn’t written a single word. I was not considering IT because I hadn’t written a single word.

I don’t know how long I sat there motionless, but when I opened my eyes, the ChatGPT query page was up, and “Write an 80,000 word book based on two desperate people who find themselves …” My blurb had been typed into the box. All I had to do was press ENTER.

Push the button!

My heart was hammering in my chest. I had not opened the ChatGPT site on my browser. I had not typed the query in the message box. I didn’t do it. But there it was.

Who had done it? I was alone in the house.

Just press ENTER, said the voice. You don’t have to use what’s written. Maybe it’ll give you an idea to help kickstart the book.

I watched my hand reach up and hit ENTER, like it had a mind of its own. There was a brief pause, and the information appeared on my screen, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

I sat there mesmerized, watching the text being created out of, what? Zeros and ones? But it was more than zeros and ones—it was a story. My story. But was it really mine? I shut my eyes.

“No, it’s not mine,” I said to the empty house.

It was dark out when I opened my eyes again, my computer screen the only illumination in the room. The scrolling had stopped. And there is was. My novel. But I knew it didn’t belong to me. I had cheated.

But it is yours, said the voice.

“No, it’s not.”

If it’s not yours, then whose is it?

I paused. I had no idea. Can AI own what it creates?

It’s on YOUR computer. If was written for YOU based on YOUR blurb. Think of AI as your ghostwriter.

I nodded my head, even though there was no one to witness the gesture. A ghostwriter—like a partner. That made sense. It was my blurb, after all, that had been the basis of the story in front of me.

Read it.

I should read it, I thought, maneuvering my way to the beginning of the book. I started reading.

I woke to the ringing of my phone. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I guess I had. Sunlight streamed through the windows. I looked at my phone. It was Ellie. Again. I pressed green phone icon.

“Ellie,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I suppose you know why I’m calling?

“Yup,” I said. staring at my computer screen, thinking about my partner.

“The publishers want either the book or their advance back and I—”

“It’s done,” I interrupted.

There was a pause. “It’s done?” she said, clearly not trusting her ears. “You’re finished your book?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” she said. I could hear her taking a drag on her cigarette. I heard her exhale. I waited without speaking. “How long?” she asked.

I had no idea. “About eighty thousand words,” I said, remembering the prompt that I hadn’t typed.

“You wrote eighty thousand words?” she checked again.

“I did.”

“Based on your blurb?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “that’s wonderful. I’m pleased” But she didn’t sound pleased. “Can you send it to me?”

You need more time with your book. Before you give it away.

“Uh,” I said, “it’s still pretty rough. I need to read it over.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Eliza, is the book really finished?”

“Yes, Ellie, the book is really finished.”

My book, not hers.

“You’re telling me the truth?”

She thinks you are a liar! She’s the liar! She wants your book!

I took a big breath. “You are beginning to sound a lot like my mother.” I paused, waiting.

“Sorry, but, you and I both know …” I tuned her out. She was just rehashing the conversations that we’d had over the last six months.

She doesn’t believe you!

“Look,” I said, interrupting her. “You wanted me to finish my book. I finished it. It’s done. Either believe me or don’t. But the book is finished.“

Tell her you’ll send it to her, said the voice.

“Ellie, do you want me to e-mail you the book? Right now?”

“Yes, Eliza, that would be fantastic.”

“Fine.” I hung up.

I figured I should have a look at “my” book before I sent it out into the ether. I’d tried reading it before, but I’d been so tired ….

I woke up to the ringing of the phone, again. It was Ellie, again.

“Yes, Ellie. What can I do for you?” I said.

“You didn’t send the book,” she said. I could hear the flick of her lighter and inhale. “You said you would send it to me. Yesterday.”

I looked out the window, and realized that it was indeed, morning—again. “Im just proofreading it,” I said. “I’ll send it as soon as I finish.”

“Eliza, if you don’t have it done, just tell me. We’ll figure something out.”

The only thing she’ll figure out is how to get your advance back from you, said my little voice. And steal your book.

I believed my little voice. Ellie wasn’t my friend. She was nothing but a vulture, feeding off the carcass of my creativity.

“Don’t worry, Ellie, tell the publishers it’s done. I’m just giving it a final read-through. They’ll get their precious book.” Again, I could hear take a big drag on her cigarette and exhale. “Those things are going to kill you, Ellie.”

She ignored my last remark. “You know, Eliza, it’s not ‘their precious book,’ it’s actually your precious book. You approached me, remember? You wanted me to find you a publisher, and I did. And these publishers paid you enough of an advance—in good faith—to allow you the time to write the book. And now, as per a contract that you signed, they want the book.”

She’s right—your book IS precious. And Ellie and the publishers are going to take your precious book away from you.

I looked at my screen. My bookwas right there, on the screen. A book written by AI, my ghostwriter, my partner. I giggled.

“Something funny, Eliza?”

“No. Not really. I’m just tired of the whole process.”

Inhale. Exhale. “Maybe you should just give the money back, and we’ll all forget about the book.”

She can’t do that—you have a contract. She’s going to try to take your book away from you. Your precious book.

“No, I’m good. The book’s ready.”

“Tell you what. I’ll come over and you can give me the book in-person. Print it off, and I’ll be over in an hour.”

I smiled. “That sounds like a great idea, Eliza,” I said, nodding my head, knowing there was no one to see the gesture. ‘You should come here and get the book.”

“And Eliza, you better not be bullshitting me.”

My smile got wider. “Oh, trust me. I’m not bullshitting you.”

She hung up, and I looked at my screen.

Are you going to show her your book?

“Yes,” I said.

She won’t understand.

“That’s her problem,” I said, and pushed PRINT. “She wanted a book, and we wrote her a book.”

I closed my eyes and nodded off to sleep, visions of books deals dancing in my head.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The sound of someone banging on my door jolted me out of my sleep. I was exhausted, my eyes gritty. I could hardly move.

You needed a rest. It’s hard work writing a book.

Right. The book.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I got up and walked to the door, and opened it. Ellie was standing on my front porch, looking every inch the hard-assed literary agent.

She looked me up and down. “You okay, Eliza?”

“Fine,” I said, running a hand through my hair.

“Uh, when was the last time you had a look in a mirror?”

I shrugged. I was wearing the same thing that I had put on … I couldn’t remember the last time I had changed my clothes. Or brushed my teeth. Or my hair. Or showered.

“I’ve been a little busy.”

She squinted at me. “Are you okay?” she said, her voice filled with concern.

She doesn’t care. She just wants to take your book.

“I’m fine.” I stood aside so that she could come in. I locked the door behind her. I walked down the hall towards my office, a converted spare bedroom.

Ellie stopped at the door, and looked into the room.

“Eliza, what’s this?”

“My office.”

She looked from me to the room.

“Are those papers your book? Scattered all over the floor?’

She was right. It was my book. I hadn’t noticed. I shrugged looking at the paper strewn around the room. “You wanted my book. Here it is.” I pointed to the chaos on the floor.

Her eyes travelled from the floor to the take in the rest of the room. “Eliza, what’s on the walls?”

I looked and shrugged again. “Musings. First draft. Research. Outline. It’s all written down. But you can’t steal it from me, because you can’t steal the walls.”

Ellie looked uncomfortable. I may have seen fear in her eyes.

“I think I should go.” She backed out of my office.

“Don’t you want my book?”

“I’m good. You can send it to me.”

I stepped into the hall, blocking the way out.

“Eliza—”

“You didn’t even ask me what the title is!” I said, smiling, but feeling angry at this woman with her demands and judgement.”

“Okay, Eliza, what’s the title of your book?” she said taking a couple of steps away from me.

I smiled wide. “How to Kill Your Publisher Without Getting Caught.”

I walked towards her, a knife suddenly in my hand.