Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 92, No. 3. Whole No. 547, September 1988

Writers Anonymous by Leland Neville

© 1988 by Leland Neville.

Leland Neville has had short stories published in various magazines since his first, “The Morgue,” in the November 1983 EQMM. As for this one, think Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley...

I recently failed my third — and last — attempt to become a licensed writer. The competition for one of these coveted licenses is intense and the judging strict but fair. There are only a few openings a year — contrary to what you may believe, most of our writers live long lives — and since a bestseller is lucky to be read by two thousand people, the State’s position, no matter how great its desire to support the arts, is difficult. There is, after all, only so much money.

The woman (I think I know who she is) who reported me took the right action; it’s usually easier to just look the other way. The time I stole from the company to write is money stolen from the State and therefore money stolen from the sick. And if I have the energy to write after my work assignment, in my apartment — well, I now understand that that energy could be put to more productive uses. Valueless creativity steals from everyone, including ourselves.

We are fortunate that writing without a license is usually considered not a crime but a disease. I have today heard about the crueler, less informed times, and what can I say except I’m glad to be alive here and today. I will never write again. It has been a bad habit. I will henceforth produce only goods of value. I understand I can never be a licensed writer. No exceptions. No one will ever read my words. I accept this. I am grateful for this program and I have the number to call should the muse be more persistent than I believe. My final ten minutes of writing is now almost over. I am just filling the remaining time with words, anxious to close this sorry chapter of my life. I am tired of writing. Bored. I have nothing to say. Just a few more seconds. They won’t let us stop. Part of the therapy. Only a few more seconds.

There is a burning flush in my legs that began with the soles of my feet. Hot. Hotter. Hottest. They force the pencil back into my hand. “Write,” they command. “Write. It doesn’t matter what you write as long as you write — write about the pain, write our words. We don’t care what you write. Just write.” I drop the pencil and the pain, the burning, shoots through me. I write these words and it decreases. I understand.

“We’re fully licensed. We know what we’re doing. You won’t die or suffer any permanent physical injury. And the good part is you will never write again. This aversion therapy is very successful when employed by licensed people. We, by the way, have second-class licenses. You will soon always associate writing with pain. For most of us that’s natural, but there are a few who need our help.”

It was just an idea for a story. I wasn’t necessarily going to write the story, I just didn’t want to forget the idea. The pain increases. Burning.

“You have put yourself through too much in order to obtain a third-class writer’s license. With one of those, you’re only an anonymous word assembler. You never get a byline. You could never reach the two-thousand-readership mark that would earn you a permanent first-class license, you must know that. A third-rank wasn’t much of an ambition. You’ll thank us someday.” The burning increases. “Write.” The burning increases. “Don’t repeat yourself. Anything but that. Write. That’s better.”

The idea. It hasn’t diminished. Isolated, unaware of each other’s existence, sharing a common, no, an uncommon thought, the unlicensed begin to communicate and create. The authorities (maybe an eavesdropper reports them to the State) become aware of the unlicensed ones and of course are threatened. The State has lost its monopoly on words. What powers have these people obtained? How did they get them? Who gave them to them? And of course the big question: what do they plan to do with their power?

“Next time you feel the urge to write,” one of the licensed aversionists tells me, “call the number Writers Anonymous gave you.”

“I don’t think,” the other aversionist says, “he’ll need the number or us again. This should do it. And one step closer to being first-rank.”

Except for my ankle monitor, I am naked and my clothes are in shreds. “Write,” the bigger one commands. Except for their statures they are nearly identical. “Keep writing. Don’t stop. Experts will look over your words. They’ll find the real meaning. You can’t expect to fool the top-rankers. We know you wrote something, we just can’t find it.”

“Maybe he ate it,” the smaller one says. The bigger one ignores him.

“Just write what you wrote about twenty minutes ago. At two-twelve. That’s when the ankle monitor detected writing.”

“The seal on his ankle monitor has not been tampered with,” says the smaller.

“Of course not!” yells the bigger. “That’s how we picked up the writing. And in the ten minutes it took us to get here, no one saw him leave his cubicle. He doesn’t have access to a videowriter, we haven’t found any paper or even pencils—”

“And now he’s just copying our words,” says the smaller. “Unless he was pretending to write. Can the monitor tell the difference between really writing and pretending to write?”

“Why would anyone do that? Do you think he’s having fun? And it could lead to more shocks.”

“Look!” The smaller one grabs my left arm while my right keeps writing. “He’s scratched something into his flesh. A couple of words.”

“We’re going to have to make him stop writing. I think this is considered an unusual circumstance that forces us to break orders.”

I have resumed writing. I am still naked. The smaller one is searching for a camera so my forearm can be documented on film. I have promised that when a camera is found I will stop writing and be absolutely still so a clear photo of my arm can be taken. The bigger one would like me, of course, to expand on the two words scratched — with just a fingernail — into my arm. POWER COMM. It was just an idea for that story. “It is not,” I say, “power to the Communists.” The only ideas they are familiar with are recycled ones. Neither, I am certain, believes that writing can give birth to ideas. “You don’t have to start with an idea,” I say.

“Then keep writing,” the bigger one says. “And don’t talk.”

It’s the power of the unlicensed, unconcerned about obtaining a license they know they can never possess. Free. The strong imprison the wise, but their time and energy is futilely spent attempting to steal the meaning of their captive’s creativity, believing that labeling equals knowledge. Waiting for words that will free the minds.

The little one, with his indifference — affected or real — has gotten more out of me than I want to tell. He is reading these words. “Write my name,” he says, “so the top-rankers who will read this will know. So far only third-rankers are studying your ravings — but they talk, and second- and first-rankers listen. And there are an awful lot of them. Time is up. Did you get my name written?”

The unlicensed, now an almost invisible network, either overestimate the power of their knowledge or underestimate evil. Either way, their mistake could be fatal unless immediate steps are taken...

Since writing the above, what once was considered a sin of the flesh but today is called merit reinforcement occurred. She has a second-class license in Nineteenth Century Far East mythical sensuality and says there is plenty of opportunity for advancement. She also says she knows that for writers there are only ten positions, but that number may be reduced because the bestseller standard of two thousand readers is today rarely met. She is one of the almost two thousand readers who made There Is More to Happiness Than Being Happy a bestseller. She is a Renaissance woman.

Both stop just outside my cell door. “Watch what you say,” the man says. “See, he’s already writing my words. He writes everything.”

She enters my cell first. “Sure. That’s why we fourth-class examiners were chosen for this assignment. No one cares what we say. Our words can be safely ignored.”

The man follows her inside. “If he had only tried to be sensible, not fixated and obsessed. He hasn’t really struggled against it. If he hadn’t been greedy during the merit-reinforcement therapy, he could have kept a good thing going. But he even blew that. And look at him writing. Why?”

They sit at the foot of the bare cot I’m on and continue to ignore me. It is, of course, part of the isolation therapy. “He is,” the woman says, “criminally insane. There’s no logical answer to why he writes. He just can’t help himself. That’s why the prescribed treatment is so subjective. He’s not receiving any monetary benefits from his writing, yet he writes like a dedicated first-ranker. Well, maybe this experimental writing therapy will be successful.”

“It should be — it was mandated from the top.”

“It was mandated from a third-class examiner. That’s all we have to know. And all we have to know about the treatment is that, hopefully, once the story that keeps working its way into his mimicking and mocking words is completed he will be cured. We just make sure he doesn’t escape and has enough paper and pencils — and, when he finishes the story, prevent him from beginning another. At that point in his treatment, we have permission to use force.”

She gets up to leave, but he sticks his face over my words. “How are we going to know when he finishes?” he asks her. “Is he going to Write ‘The End’? I’ve read some stories and if there isn’t a ‘The End,’ it’s hard to tell.”

She stops at the cell door, keeping her back to us. “We send his scribblings to the experts. They’ll see the end coming. They’ll let us know and we’ll be ready.”

He starts uncertainly toward the door. “I think we should just stop him from writing. We can do it in this contained environment. We’ve performed more difficult tasks — not that it’s ever gotten us a higher grade. Every time he writes a page, we should burn it in front of his eyes. That would do it. But even if it didn’t, there are lots of other ways. The top-rankers’ theory about curing him by letting him purge his own story doesn’t make a lot of sense unless — unless they think there’s something worthwhile in his story. Maybe that’s it.”

The woman abruptly turns and they almost collide. “You talk too much and he writes too much. Maybe you’re both psychotic and can’t help yourselves.” She stops and considers me. “Watch this. He’s been writing continuously and the paper is almost filled. He needs to stop, wants to stop, but—” She unfolds a clean sheet of paper from her jacket pocket. “Here you go. Nice new paper.” She tosses it on my cot. “And a nice new pencil.” It follows the paper onto the cot. I grab them both. “See? He can’t help himself.”

Actually, this new paper does help. It always does.

A clean start, like the clean start the State needs if it is serious about intercepting the secrets of the unlicensed and ultimately controlling the power. The unlicensed are a small minority and can never hope to continue to manipulate the majority as they are now quietly doing. There is effective action the State can take, but patience is the critical ingredient. Because the State lacks this vital quality, I can reveal the plan of action which would almost immediately debilitate this subversive network. It is so incredibly simple...

“He’s writing the story,” says the man, “not just copying our words and actions.”

“You shouldn’t have talked. Now he’s back to mimicking us.”

“I’d like nothing better than to rip that pencil from his fingers and use it as kindling for the fire that would burn his words. He’s got just about every grade-two info manager reading his scribblings, looking for clues. What a waste of time and money. He probably doesn’t have any idea how many grade-two info managers there are.”

I do. Over two thousand. And that isn’t enough to stop the unlicensed communication.