Chapter Seven
What’s Wrong, Editor?
I scrolled down to the end of the Foster story, hit return a couple of times, and looked at the blinking insertion point. Then I typed:
Dave, is that really you.
What do you want?
I hit return, and the monitor went blank.
Keisha asked, “What are you doing, Zach?”
“I’m not sure,” I told her. “Trying a hunch.” I had to try something, after all.
The computer’s hard drive whirred for a few moments, then words appeared beneath mine.
What I always wanted—to write.
“Oh, wow,” Keisha breathed in my ear. Her long black hair tickled the back of my neck.
I tried not to think about the weirdness of having a girl that close to me and the serious weirdness of having a ghost talking to me through a computer monitor. I looked at the Foster printouts and winced. Derivative, even more serious than my stuff - heavy and clumsy, like Dave had been. But there were some exciting parts, too. I typed:
I didn’t know you liked Sherlock Holmes.
After a moment, Dave’s answer appeared.
You never asked. I always wanted to write mysteries and help Holmes solve them. I wanted to publish one in the school magazine, but you just laughed at everything I wrote.
I felt my face burn, then typed:
So Foster is you?
There was a pause. Then new words appeared on the screen, one letter at a time, like ordinary typing, only faster.
Kind of. But not exactly. After all—it’s fiction.
“What are you going to do?” Keisha whispered, as if Dave could hear our voices. Maybe he could. “Publish these for him?”
I looked at her. “They’re not publishable, are they? You’re the editor too, you know. How would you help improve them? Make them lighter, pick up the pace?”
She paced, frowning. “Add some humor, maybe. And get rid of characters somebody else created. Figure out what he really wants to write, I guess.”
“Yeah, but how do you just ‘add humor’? I can’t tell him how.” I almost said I couldn’t tell him because I didn’t know how to do it myself, but I couldn’t quite say the words, even though I suspected Keisha already knew how inept I was at writing funny.
The computer whirred briefly, and letters appeared, only a lot faster this time.
What’s wrong, editor? Still don’t like my writing?
You’ll see more of it. I have all the time in the world for my stories now—and practice makes perfect.
“Now wait a minute!” I cried. My fingers hammered the keys.
Since you showed up, I haven’t been able to write a word without your stories taking over my files! And what about the C- I got because Mr. Myers thought your story was derivative?
His answer appeared on the screen almost immediately.
IT HURTS, DOESN’T IT???
I winced from the anger glaring out from the monitor. The room’s temperature dropped again, and Keisha rubbed her arms through her sweater sleeves.
It wasn’t fair! I had my own stories to write - and my own stuff to learn. But it wasn’t fair the way I’d put Dave down, either, or the way I put Keisha down for writing humor, especially when I wished I could write it myself. By the time you know something’s unfair, unfortunately, it’s too late to do anything about it.
Except Dave didn’t think it was too late.
– End Chapter Seven –
