Scrib-O-Rama

A Post-Künstlerroman in Five Passages

"Storytelling comes naturally for most people," said Jayvee. "That's how we make sense of things. Once upon a time, A meets B. Conflict happens. Action rises then... Boom! Cliffhanger. Find out what happens next time—if some asshole on Twitter doesn't spoil the plot twist first."

On the conference room screen, the presentation displayed a slide with Hemingway's famous six-word "baby shoes" story.

The modest audience was zoning out. Some were blatantly pillaging rival clans' fortresses on their smartphones. Others sipped on watered-down coffee, desperately trying to stay awake.

"Almost everyone can narrate," he continued. "But writing is a craft. A learned skill, with processes, rules, structures..."

For most of Jayvee's coworkers at Pangea Business Processing Solutions, "good writing" meant keeping American end-users satisfied with their clients' services—a motley portfolio of established financial institutions, middling retailers, and disruptive tech brands scaling up. If consumers read their template-based email replies and felt like their needs were being met (or at least recognized) then hey—job well done!

Sure, there were quite a few budding poets or would-be fictionists on staff. However, most of them participated in online communities to hone their talents.

Nearly everyone attending Jayvee's workshop hoped it would be an easy way to meet Pangea's "cultural engagement" quota; at least one hour of mandatory in-office social activity per business period. Yet Jayvee rambled on about the proud tradition of writing—from monastic scribes to cellphone novelists, by way of Strunk, White, and page-turning best-sellers.

Only Riza seemed to follow along. She frenetically took notes in the faux Moleskine that doubled as her bullet journal. Not just pointers, but her own rejoinders and observations:

- Literary elitism masquerading as curated diversity?

- how to keep A Room of One's Own in the era of crowd-sourced, peer-to-peer house-sharing

- implication: oral tradition = inferior!?

§

Jayvee stood in line to deposit his check for a recent editing gig. He'd conspired with his daughter Anaïs to buy her a MIDI Controller for her twelfth birthday, against his estranged wife's better judgment. Anaïs had grown up listening to Canadian indie rock (his), trip-hop (hers), and Motown soul (theirs), so her newfound interest in over-produced EDM struck Jayvee as an odd way to assert her identity. However, as a frustrated DJ himself, he didn't want to deny Anaïs this opportunity.

Jayvee waited for his number to flash on the antiquated queue display. In his mind, he began developing scenes for his work-in-progress—the much-delayed sequel to Synaptic Dick, his post-cyberpunk noir tale. The previous book gained a minor cult following, so he felt the pressure to craft seedier urban vistas, intensified hacker duels, amped-up parkour chases, even more mind-blowing revelations. Of course, that's all just plotting, not actual writing, he thought—aloud, it turns out.

"Are you off your meds again?" asked Anaïs, sounding both embarrassed and legitimately concerned. "If you need to buy refills, the controller can wait, you know."

§

The blinking cursor taunts Jayvee throughout his break times, while he repeats fruitless mantras about "writing in white heat" or "better done than perfect". 

By the time he finds even the most adequate phrases, he must clock in again. Every belated sentence leeches productive minutes from the workday.

§

"The dire jackalope pounces at Erasmatazz!" said Bok, moving the figurine into position. "What now?"

Jayvee had been distracted. He spent the previous round furiously drafting a wonderful paragraph that had been forming in his mind. "I, uh... beguile it."

"Okaaay... make a Will check at difficulty 5."

Failure—of course.

"The beast easily overcomes their charms, knocking them into unconsciousness. The Stochastic Guild's healer is down!"

Kai facepalmed. Ferds sighed heavily, glaring at Jayvee.

§

Inspiration is bullshit. Jayvee knows this. Or at least relying on inspiration is bullshit.

Regardless, he must admit that words seem to flow more organically whenever he recalls that brief yet riveting conversation with Riza in the pantry earlier. Low-key flirting as narrative lube? Ewww. Yet it feels so apt, he just wants to own the whole tired pen-as-penis analogy.

He remembers the slipstream banter, her Kelly Link musings, how they waxed postcolonial...

Hrnnnnh... 

Words spill forth onto the page.