Marie Writes a Book

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is a story that refers to artificial intelligence.

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published early in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Contact SuchALossAnthology@gmail.com for submission guidelines.

 

Cathy continues with her Melvin sagas, a character she can’t seem to get rid of...

 

***

Marie Writes a Book

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Marie, I think you should write a book.”

She looked at me as if I had two heads. She did that often. Made her look silly. Like a complete duffus.

“Marie, you hear me?”

She sighed. “Yes, Mel, I hear you.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Writing a book. I think you’d be great at it.”

She squinted as if questioning my saneness.

“Yes, Marie, I’m serious.”

“I never asked that, Melvin. Just wondering what brought this on. Me? Write a book?”

“Yes you, Marie.  You’ve always said you were a straight-A student. Perfect grammar in school. First in your class in English and—”

“I was, yes, but that doesn’t mean I can write a book. Books take years to write.” She paused. Stared at me for a good long minute. “I’d need a devoted room, Mel. A place where I can go, in private, without interruption, to write.”

I saw the smile—or was it a smirk?—on her face. Was she funning me? A devoted room? What the heck did that even mean? A room devoted to a person? Devotionals? Or what?

I decided to play along. “I’ve never heard of a ‘devoted room,’ Marie, but if you need one, we’ll get one.” But where?

She giggled.

Marie doesn’t often giggle.

“Melvin, I’m funning with you. I don’t need a special room. I’ll never write a book.”

“You might, Marie.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, even if you do, you’re right. Where do we get a devoted room?”

“I don’t need a room. I have my tablet. I can write in bed while you’re asleep. Hmm... You know, maybe I will.”

“Will what?”

“Write a book.”

“That’s the spirit, Marie. That’s the spirit.”

 ***

Marie disappeared earlier and earlier every night. This novel-writing thing had gone to her head. All to my detriment, of course. (You know what I mean: by the time I came up from the man cave, she’d be sound asleep, and I’d try to remove the tablet from her clenched fingers, but then she’d wake, and within seconds, her fingers would be glued to the damned thing again. “Just had a brainstorm, Mel. Leave me alone” was par for the course.)

Then, the first day in August—about a month after I’d broached the silly book-writing project—she flailed a thick brown-papered package in front of my face.

“Here it is, Melvin, sweet hubs of mine. Here’s my manuscript. My book. My novel.”

I stood, incredulous as if I’d a sec ago stepped into slushy cement that immediately hardened. I couldn’t budge. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you listen, Mel? It’s the book you wanted me to write. And guess what?”

What, I wondered. Didn’t want to ask, but I did. “What?”

“It’s about us, Melvin. Our life. Our family. Our kids—well, not Penny and Sophie, for it’s hard to remember them now, knowing I’ll never see them breathe again. No, it’s about us. You. Me. William.”

“Okay, Marie. Sounds good. When do I get to read it?”

She smirked. “Mel, you don’t read, remember? You never read.”

“But if you wrote it, I’m gonna read it.”

She clasped the package to her chest. “Not sure, Mel. Not sure I’m ready to share just yet.”

“What do you mean? Like secrets? We have secrets? We’re not supposed to, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I never knew that.”

What the f*** was wrong with her? Had writing gone to her head? I needed to change the subject. “So, back to the book... What are you going to do with it? And why’s it all wrapped up like a bland Christmas present?”

“It’s ready to go in the mail. To a publisher.”

“Like, which one? Penguin? Random House? Simon and Schuster?”

“Dunno ’til I find one. Can’t be that hard. I’m going to be selective, too. Only the best for me, right, Mel?”

***

On August 3, I dropped a bombshell of my own. During the past two days, I’d spent a bit of time at the computer when Marie was out shopping—or whatever it was she did when not at home. (Maybe when I read her book I’ll find out her secrets!)

Marie was in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, when I approached and jabbed her in the back. Just a little jab. Not with a knife or a gun or anything bad. Just my index finger. Thought I’d get a rise out of her. Which I did!

“Mel!” she screeched. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Sorry about that. Sincerely sorry.” And I was, but... “Look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“If you turn around, I could show you.”

She grabbed the dishtowel, slowly turned, and faced me.

“Here!” I thrust out a thick red folder bursting at the fold (AKA the fake spine).

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

She put down the towel and took the folder. She flipped it open. “What’s this?”

I thrust back my shoulders. Held my head high. “It’s my book, Marie.”

“Your book? What do you mean?” She examined the title. Had to notice my name beneath it but seemed clueless. She slowly turned the pages, several at a time, stopping every now and then to read a paragraph. Or two.

“You wrote this?”

“I did.”

She examined the pages again. “When did you have time to do this?”

“Every time you went out, I’d sit at the computer and write.” I moved slightly. Shifted my arms behind my back. Crossed my fingers. Couldn’t tell a lie. But I did. “Took me a few months.”

She looked up for a sec. “Bu—but this is good, Melvin.” She returned to the manuscript and silently read another paragraph on another page. “Really good. But there’s no way you wrote this. You couldn’t have.”

I uncrossed my fingers, crossed them again. “I did, Marie. Was a lot of hard work, but I did it. I saw how you wrote a book. Figured if you could do it, I could do it.” I smiled. “No offense meant by that.”

“But...that was just the other day. Two days ago, I believe, and you just said it took you a few months. What is it, Melvin?”

I hated when she called me “Melvin” with that tone. That was delving into familiar territory I didn’t like.

“I’d started it. Was almost finished with it when I suggested you write one. Thought it might bond us or something.”

“Okay. Well, can I read it?” she asked, seemingly having forgotten territorial boundaries.

“No, not yet. I’m going to look for a publisher first.” I held out my hands. If she could do it, so could I. Wasn’t about to let her read my masterpiece if I couldn’t read hers.

She closed the folder and handed it to me.

I grasped the papers to my chest. Watched her wordlessly return to face the sink.

I grinned. “Did you find a publisher for yours yet, Marie?”

“Not yet,” she mumbled, “but I have a few promising leads.”

Yeah, right, I thought; you haven’t got one lead. I giggled. Haha, pulled the wool over her. Marie would never be up on current affairs as I was, especially not concerning new-fangled inventions.

This Artificial Intelligence (AI for short) sure is a great tool. Input a basic plot, name a few characters, pick a locale, etcetera, etcetera. Watch the computer do its thing... Voila! Within minutes, AI spits out a novel.

Took me longer to print my book than to “write” it. Had to run to town midstream to buy more ink for the printer though I didn’t factor in that downtime when calculating how long it took to print.

I still haven’t read my manuscript, but by Marie’s reaction, it has to be a work of art. Perhaps I’ve penned a bestseller and I’ll be rich and famous!

“Look out, World: here I come!”

 

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/