Chapter Eight
Publish or Perish
My hands hovered over the keyboard. If Dave thought there was all the time in the world for his writing, maybe we still had a chance. My fingers stretched toward one key after another, slowly at first, then more quickly as I worked out exactly what I wanted to say.
You’re right, it hurts. But what hurts most is knowing I didn’t do a good enough job, and feeling afraid that maybe I can’t ever do a good enough job. What hurts is being afraid that there’s something out there I’ll never understand how to write, like making a point with humor, or some other technique I see another writer use that I can’t figure out. Is that what you’re afraid of?
Funny how it was so much easier to write all that than say it out loud.
“I thought you always said humor was dumb,” Keisha said. She sounded surprised, and almost sympathetic.
I shrugged, still staring at the screen. “Maybe I said that because I couldn’t do it myself.”
In the monitor’s screen, I saw Keisha’s reflection smile. For once it wasn’t a smirk. “I’d like to learn how to blend some serious stuff with my humor,” she told me. “If you can help Dave, maybe you can help me too.”
I glanced at her sideways then looked back at the monitor. “Maybe we could help each other.” I started typing again.
Stop trying to be Arthur Conan Doyle--be Dave Warren. Write something that’s you! I’ll help— Keisha will too. That’s what we should have done before. But we’ve got a second chance now.
The computer hummed briefly, and then the screen erupted.
I like Sherlock Holmes and his logic, but I always wanted to try something different, something modern, or even futuristic. That’s why I started reading your aliens story.
Could you really help me?
Or is this just a trick?
I shook my head. I had no idea we had so much in common. I hadn’t bothered to get to know Dave at all. How could I convince him now that I really meant it?
I scrolled back up and looked at Foster again. The guy was spunky, and there was lots of great action. What would make him work? Or maybe Dave should toss this character and create someone else, someone new, kind of like Foster, but modern, or even futuristic…
I snapped my fingers and began typing.
No trick—it’s a promise. Look—you need to invent your own detective. Make Foster something else—not a Baker Street Irregular wannabe, but someone who uses logic the way Holmes does.
Hey—maybe he’s not even human—maybe he’s an android! Or half android, or something. Give him a new mystery—coded messages sent to another planet, maybe, and he’s the only one who can decipher them, but no one belie…
The computer interrupted me:
Hey—what if the code comes through the computers, and Foster accesses it by mistake?
I grinned. An original idea - but one Dave had already tried, and knew would work. I typed:
Cool. I know just how he’ll feel.
There was a moment’s pause.
If it’s good enough—if it’s original, will you publish it in the magazine?
The black letters floated on the white computer screen. Was his question full of hope, or was it a threat, reminding me of what I could look forward to if I didn’t publish his story?
– End Chapter Eight –
