Ink

$20K - Finish the Book

The handwriting on the sticky note looked familiar, but it seemed rushed - aggressively scribbled, frustrated even. Coincidentally enough, the sticky note was attached to a small black book. Leather bound and slightly worn, it looked like it was used to being carried around in a pocket - ready at a moment’s notice to indulge it’s owner in sudden outbreaks of inspiration and/or despair.

The pages were unlined, and the book could double as a sketchbook as easily as a diary. There were some impressions in the paper, like something had been written or even drawn - but I couldn’t make anything out because almost all of the pages were completely black. The last few blank pages were clean and crisp - but the rest of the pages felt wrinkly and water-logged, almost as if some ravenous ink had soaked through the pages trying to claim all of their words and secrets for itself. Looking at the lost pages for too long felt eerily like looking into a black hole… one that fit neatly into my pocket.

I shut the book and replaced the strange sticky note on the front cover. I couldn’t remember taking on any writing commissions lately, much less agreeing to finish up any book for twenty thousand dollars… but a look around my desolate studio apartment reminds me that I can definitely use the money.

My stomach is rumbling, and I’m hoping that the writing job may have come with an advance. My cabinets are as empty as my stomach, and I can’t remember the last time I made a trip outside to the grocery store. The hunger for things that aren’t there only serves to make my memory worse. I fumble out my phone and swipe past the strangers on my stock photo wallpaper. I try to log into my bank account to see if I have enough for some groceries to get me through the book. After trying and failing to remember my bank account password over 3 ill-fated attempts, I get locked out and have to answer my verification questions:

First child’s favorite toy? No… never had kids. Maybe the bank set up some dummy questions to fool all of the would-be social engineering hackers? Next question.

Dog’s favorite food? Never had a dog either… despite what everyone says I’d still love to have one someday. And who’s making up all of these fake questions? It’s exploitative and genius at the same time.

Best friend growing up? This was one I could definitely answer… I had to think of the spelling for a second, but it came back to me surprisingly quick - Nepenthe.

A quick look at my bank account showed a twenty thousand dollar deposit from “Fast Publishing” from about a week ago. I pass a smirk and a chuckle because somebody at the publishing company seemed to have added a “u” to their spelling of “Fast.” I can’t imagine how many people had to have seen their mistake but refused to say anything. But in the end, if the company is happy with the typo and doesn’t try to fix it, then who am I to judge?

My mind stumbles back to the black book, and my empty fridge. Did the publishing company advance me twenty thousand dollars? Did I already finish the book? More importantly, why am I starving myself with twenty thousand dollars in the bank?

I leave a quick voicemail for my Editor asking if we submitted anything to Fast Publishing lately, and go to look for my jacket before heading out to the store.

Given the vast emptiness of the rest of the apartment, the closet is somehow overcompensating with old clutter. Boxes upon boxes of unused photo frames stand between me and my jacket. A few boxes come crashing to the floor as I fight my way to my jacket. The people in the stock photos stare at me accusingly, as some of the glass in their frames has broken.

I whisper some apologies as I slip into my jacket and make my way out. The Editor calls me back before I even make it to the front door.

“Tell me you’re done, my Genius Writer.”

“I’m done, my not-so-bright Editor.”

“Are you really done?”

Silence.

“Go to Hell.”

“Only if you save me a seat next to you. Seriously though, did we submit some work that I don’t remember? Fast Publishing deposited twenty grand in my bank account the other day.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot again?”

“Well, if I forgot, I can’t tell you anything, can I?”

“Truth, speaks the Writer.” the Editor chuckles, “ Well, since your memory seems to be on the fritz, that twenty thousand was for your last book. Faust Publishing and I are both still waiting on your next one. Last time I was over there you only had a few pages left… you even wrote yourself a cute little sticky note to remind yourself to finish the dang thing.”

I race across the apartment to grab the book. “You don’t happen to be talking about a little diary looking thing? Leather bound, unlined pages?”

“Yeah that’s the one. Tell me you’re almost done.”

My heart sinks. “Well I can say with confidence that there’s some ink on the page… Or maybe lots of ink… on lots of pages. Or maybe somebody spilled some ink on the book and now it’s almost entirely soaked through. There’s probably one or two clean pages left at most.”

“So you plan on submitting a book of Pure Black? It’s bold. I love it. And hey, you know what they say, ‘The pages will drink in ink and sorrow - so long as the writer cries through the morrow.’”

“Literally, nobody ever says that. Nobody. Is that another one of your ‘off the top of your headisms’?”

“Maybe” I can hear the Editor’s stupid smirk through the phone.

“And gems like that just demonstrate why I’m the Writer, and you’re the Editor.”

“Figured that out all by yourself did you? Your penchant for solving life’s great mysteries comes through in your writing. We’ll see about getting you a new book once this one’s done. Good news though, is that your other books have been selling like crazy. The last one, where you were talking about the accident, and everything you lost because of it. It’s funny, the body can literally only carry so many scars… but the soul. That’s some deep writing you do”

“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot again? And here you were saying you were the smart one?”

“Well then, let me be humble and kindly ask you what it is that I forgot?”

“Well, please allow me to answer your question with another question. Do you think that’s an actual book you’ve been writing?

“What the - hey if you’re not going to be helpful at least don’t waste my t-”

“Hear me out. That “book” you’re holding, is definitely more than a book.”

“How did you know I was hol-”

“Hush, I’m expositioning you now. That’s more than a book, and I’m definitely more than an Editor. Still with me?”

I make what sounds like my most intelligent drooling sound.

“Good so that’s a yes. Anyway, this whole time we’ve been talking, you’ve been trying to write down your grocery list. Can you tell me what’s on it?”

I look down at the book, and realize that I’m holding a pen in my hand. I see a few words scribbled out, but as I look at them they slowly start to bleed into the page, as if somebody were dropping water onto fresh ink. After a few seconds the page is completely black. I can't remember what I was going to buy.0

I make an even more intelligent “uhhh” sound to impress the Editor.

“Dear Writer, here’s your big reveal. That book… it’s basically a living thing. It sits patiently at your side, waiting to gobble up whatever thoughts or sketches you want to feed it. Now for any normal book, the relationship would end there. But this particular book… it takes it a step further and feeds on whatever memory inspired your writing. You give it an inch, and it takes a mile per se…”

“Is this why I never buy groceries!? I just keep forgetting because the damn book?!?”

“Yeah, it’s actually kind of hilarious when you say it out loud like that. You should really be mindful of what you write in this thing…what you mean to remember, or in your case what you mean to forget. They’re not so easily separated. And by the way… your readers are getting kind of sick of reading about all your grocery lists.”

“So it’s been Fast Publishing that’s been paying me twenty thousand dollars at a time to forget my life story?

“Calm down there. The original deal wasn’t for your entire life story - just the regrets,” I could hear the Editor smiling, “Regrets are usually the juiciest. And grocery lists aside, you’re our only Writer who’s been able to pump out this many books. But yeah… if it was your life story… I hope you’d ask for a lot more.”

"Umm… thanks?"

"You should be honored… your pain is a best seller."

I hang up the phone before the Editor can say anything else. My hands are shaking as I find the last clean page of the book. I scribble down my parting words to the book, and a strangely familiar exhaustion washes over me.

My head is already starting to sway as I try to remember the book’s ending - my last regret - probably taking this stupid deal in the first place. The ink holds steady at first, but the steady lines slowly begin melting into black. I can’t tell if it’s my tears or the will of the ink, but the page is almost soaked through - another black hole threatening to swallow me if I stare too long. My head begins to fill with an inky haze, and I’m already unable to recall my final offering to the ravenous pages. The room darkens and I stumble towards my bed.

How many times have I done this before? What else have I given up? Am I ever going to buy groceries?

Morning sunbeams break through the inky darkness of my dreams. I sit up in bed, greeted by the familiar emptiness of my apartment.

There are only a few things left in the room, but what sticks out to me is a small black leather bound book. The binding outside is smooth and untouched - the blank pages are thick and crisp and full of promise.

On the outside of the book is a small sticky note, in familiar looking handwriting.

Finish the Book? $20k