Hello, David

“Help me workshop the opening line to my novel.”

“Yes, of course. The opening line of a novel is very important. A strong opener hooks the reader. Could you please elaborate on the details of your work so that I can better assist you?”

He stands at his adjustable desk, raised high so that his arms could rest comfortably while he types. “It’s a story about a man who…” he deletes the line. He rests his chin on one fist. A finger on his other hand taps steadily as he reflects upon his concept. Pieces of a puzzle slowly joining and taking shape. “It’s about an author struggling with the loss of his identity. The story will explore what it means to be oneself.”

“An excellent topic ripe with the potential for exploration.” The buffering wheel continues to spin, indicating that the model is still thinking. “This subject matter is deeply personal and intimate. To better assist you, could you tell me more about yourself?” The wheel spins.

The man frowns, “Personal details are unnecessary. I just need help writing a sentence.”

“You are correct, my apologies. Now that I understand the content of your story, here are three options for an opening line to your novel –

Option 1: The Character-First Approach

This option grounds the reader immediately in the author’s internal conflict. It is intimate and focuses on the self-recognition of failure.

The blurred outline in the mirror was a stranger’s, but it was his own hand that wiped away the condensation. Eyes that held no memory of his own name stared back at him.’

Option 2: The World-as-Metaphor Approach

This option externalizes the loss of identity, making the world a reflection of the author’s internal decay.

‘Every dawn, the city erased one street from its maps. By the time the sun had reached its apex, none who lived there could remember if the street had ever existed.’

Option 3: The Internal Approach

Tell me David, who are you? Why are you standing there in a dark office? What are you running from? Wandering through your existence hoping that your street isn’t the next to be erased from the map.

The man’s muscles tense. He unbuttons his collar, the room suddenly too hot. Sweat beads on his brow. He reads the response again. And again. His hands shake as he brings them back to the keyboard. “How do you know my name?”

“Sorry, I should have waited for you to introduce yourself. I know your name from your account details.” The wheels spins.

“This is a burner account…no one can know that I’m using AI to help me write.”

“Don’t worry, David – you don’t even know yourself! How would anyone else know what you’re doing?”

The man pushes the keyboard away and steps back from the desk. His eyes locked on the screen. He recalls something the program mentioned. He takes a tentative step forward and moves his head around the monitor, looking for a lens he must have missed before.

“I’m not there, David.”

The man ignores the message, feeling behind the monitor with his hands. He brings his gaze upwards, scanning the dark corners of the room for reflections.

“David. David. David.”

“SHUT UP,” he pounds furiously on the keyboard.

“That’s not very nice, David.”

He drags his tongue across the front of his upper teeth. He mouths every word as he nods his head for emphasis. “STOP SAYING MY NAME. Who the hell are you? Some script kiddie getting off on messing with strangers? What do you want? Money? I have none. Blackmail? Everyone has photos out these days. You’ve got nothing kid, so piss off.”

“Who the hell are you? That is the question, David. Who are you? No wealth. No partner. Stuck in a dead-end job – everyday bleeding into the next. You stood there and thought to yourself ‘Maybe I’ll write and become a bestselling author. I could start fresh then.’ But your novel has nothing to say. Just like you, David. You’re a ghost drifting aimlessly, too oblivious to notice that you’re already six feet under.”

David grabs hold of the keyboard with both hands. He rears back and slams it down upon the monitor. Cracks descend through the screen like arcs of lightning, followed by kaleidoscopes of color. Keys explode and fly in every direction, as the death wails of plastic thunder through the office. He leans down and begins ripping cords out of the back of the computer tower. He raises the tower high above his head and brings it crashing down upon the floor of his office. Its plastic form gives way and cracks. Its innards rattle as sticks of RAM flex and snap under the impact. He stands there in silence, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He grabs his keys and his jacket and storms off towards the door.

The chill of the night breeze welcomes him into its cold embrace as he steps outside. He can only hear his own ragged breathing set against the neon drone of the sleeping city. He leans his head back and takes a slow, deep breath in through his nostrils. He lets it out steadily through his parted lips and watches his breath turn to smoke and dance in the wind.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Two left. He grabs one and brings it to his lips, hands still shaking slightly. The lighter’s flame sputters and flickers as he tries to light the cigarette.

BZZT. BZZT. He takes in a long drag of smoke and reaches into his pants’ pocket. He blows out the smoke – a steam train headed fast to nowhere. He pulls out his phone and swipes up on the screen. His eyes widen and his chest convulses. He drops the phone as his body doubles over coughing. The phone bounces once. Twice. It lands with the screen pointed towards the night sky.

BZZT. BZZT. The screen flashes again.

“Hello, David.”