The Extremely Serious Writers' Manual

by @H-A-Spade

Gerard knew there was something wrong with this perfect world he lived in. 

Take, for instance, his favorite thing to do, which was of course to drink light-roasted coffee with skim milk and honey. If he wished to have a light-roasted coffee with skim milk and honey, he would have to extend his left arm to open the fridge while simultaneously searching his internal database for "skim milk," "coffee," and "honey," and successfully locate each, in order for the whole shebang to be properly pulled off; well now, then he's just standing there like an imbecile, standing with his head in the fridge, thinking about "skim milk," "coffee," and "honey," with hardly any progress to show for. It's not enough, you see. It's just not enough to want something; there's got to be an action.

So next he must think of the action—of grabbing the coffee, the skim milk, the honey. Imagine the distance they must lie from his hand as he reaches, explain to his hand that it must clutch each object with appropriate force (too strong, and the contents will sadly explode into something very unlike a nice light-roasted coffee with skim milk and honey; too gentle, and they, too, will drop and explode in a similar fashion; truthfully, Gerard wasn't entirely sure but it was his understanding there would be a considerable amount of exploding)... and all this is to say nothing of the actual clutching, you know, just the thinking about it.

The point is: It's a hard life. That much is clear.

But what's worse was that Gerard had absolutely no control over what he did, or said. Or felt.

A romantic would call this fate. A realist would say something about nature versus nurture. A psychiatrist might bring up Tourette's. Yet a few people—only a few in the whole world—could tell you the truth.

I am one of these people.

One of The Writers.

Yes, I've helped to write Gerard, not really putting me in my best light, to be honest. And Hitler, that was pretty low. For some reason I really enjoyed Prince. So energetic, and sparkly. Indeed, writing celebrities for The Program has had its ups and downs; and now that I'm retiring and evidently you've taken some sort of interest in the profession, you'll have to start the same way we all do: with our specialized training program, proudly brought to you by Target™.

I'd wish you luck, but you'll soon find it's all an algorithm and there's no such thing.

***

Hello, newcomer, and welcome to Wattpad! Thank you for your interest in our program!

This is Gerard.

Gerard's name is not Gerard. He does not have a name because he is a Blank, a mass-produced sentient humanoid being genetically engineered by our chemists in the WattLab for the sole purpose of these training exercises. Over the course of this program it will be your assignment to not only name Gerard, but to bring him to life! Isn't that exciting? We think so, too!

Everything about Gerard—from his age to his race to his gender to his species—is entirely up to you. Will Gerard be a six-headed lizard from the planet Taahl? Or will he be Angela from quality control? How about a kitten who's just escaped into the big city?

The answer is: none of these! As a Celebrity Writer it will be your job to write society's most well-known and influential humans, sephids, cytogeminoids, or any other sentient being from any universe you choose. We tricked you! See, we're fun and humorous!

The objective of Celebrity Writers is to dominate the world with glamor and wealth.

But no pressure, right?

Don't worry, you've got this! You have been specially selected from millions of candidates from around the multiverse as most appropriate for the job—so pat yourself on the back! Way to go, you!

In this chapter, we'll be introducing you to your character, Gerard, as well as to your experienced training instructor (signature_X___BEEDLEBOTTOM_).

Have fun!

***

Gerard fully understood that today was not a good day.

For one thing, he had forgotten to pick up toothpaste the night before, and if there was one thing in the world he absolutely hated more than anything it was brushing his teeth with tap water. The pipes had nearly frozen stiff overnight and the water was hideously cold. Said frozen pipes were rusted and he always imagined he could taste it.

For another, he was having an existential crisis.

He woke up not knowing who he was, where he was, what he was doing, or the meaning of any of it. To the contrary, he rather thought he might be a woman today, but upon further investigation he found that to be extremely unlikely. But—and here's the real kicker—the whole discomfort factor here was that he felt he ought to be one soon.

Yet through the grog, he managed to pad his way through his apartment in his old, ratty slippers—slippers, he thought, yes, that's the word, now where the hell am I?—and, still shaken by a certain gelatinous feeling of impending change, sat himself down at his favourite floral-print chair.

On a flimsy-looking end table beside him was a plastic remote control, a glass table lamp filled with sand and presumably fake seashells, and a stack of magazines and the like, topped by a rather worn copy of Fray issue #7.

Do I have a job? Gerard wondered, idly.

Then he became vaguely aware that there was quite a lot of crashing going on outside. And quite a lot of screaming. The building was groaning and bristling like a startled cat.

Wearily, Gerard set about the task of heaving himself up and wandering over to the window—What time is it? Am I going to be late for work?—and promptly beheld a colossal reptilian creature destroying a burning city of frightened people running for their lives.

He blinked.

He shut the blinds.

"I'd better call in today."

***

Very good, very good. But it's just that—oh, how do I say this?—everything about it was wrong.

Firstly, what part of Celebrity Writer did you not understand? Your Gerard is no more a celebrity than a room-temperature vegetable tray at a company potluck. And apparently just as poor.

Well, now, there's no point in introductions, seeing as how you've already met me (Beedlebottom, how do you do). I'd rather like to skip all of that fanciful nonsense: the objectives, the outlines, etc., etc., and the part where I explain to you that, no, I am not a simple Writer with dishevelled overgrown hair slumping over a clackety old typewriter, with a swig of good scotch at one side and a Slinky on my other—to the contrary, I find all Slinkies infinitely frustrating and all alcohol abhorrent; and now that you'll be a Writer, so do you.

The Program is an extremely serious simulation designed for an extremely serious purpose, the purpose of which I cannot tell you, nor can I tell you the purpose of that purpose or any other purpose, and only extremely serious Writers are allowed the great fortune of knowing about not knowing this purpose. The characters in this simulation require constant commands and supervision; should you wish to partake of a habit such as smoking or drinking, for all we know Gerard will blow up and die. (Lots of things on Earth explode, write that down.)

The idea that the creative endeavour and mind-altering substances are entwined is one of the great pop-intellectual myths of our time... Substance-abusing writers are just substance abusers—common garden-variety drunks and druggies, in other words. Any claims that the drugs and alcohol are necessary to dull a finer sensibility are just the usual self-serving bullshit. I've heard alcoholic snowplow drivers make the same claim, that they drink to still the demons.

That said, as Gerard is simply a Blank and hardly very important, he is but a temporary tool used only for training. By the end of this course it will be your responsibility to dispose of him properly before moving on to The Program (in Earth slang, "Life"), whether violently or otherwise. However, substance abuse during this time will remain prohibited.

Now, let's try again, but this time no dinosaurs.

***

And then, in another freak incident of unsettling anything-is-possibleness, Gerard politely kicked his slippers off and leapt out the window.

Somehow he had known, as all of the world's most critically wealthy people do, that in the event he should tumble out of any of his excessive windows, a member of his private space-jet fleet (which idle near the windows as a matter of simple preparedness and not, as is the common misconception, of assholedness) would catch him and take him somewhere expensively beautiful and exotic while playing soothing instrumental music, in order to help him forget about falling out of a window.

He was wrong.

The music was not instrumental.

It was a combination of Lazaarian folk screaming, lovesick Albino yak stamping, and gentle Hellish breathing. If you don't know the Hellians, then you can't possibly imagine how peaceful this particular track was. Especially during a giant monster attack.

"Excuse me, sir?" the jet said. "May I bother you for a destination? Perhaps somewhere you don't own?"

"Well," Gerard began. He had to think for a moment.

The jet waited.

"Can you tell me," Gerard finally said, "who I am?"

The jet laughed. "Ah, so we're having another identity crisis, are we?"

"Actually, I think this one might be existential."

"Hmm. Don't worry, I know just the place."

And that was the end of that. Gerard and his space-jet were very good friends indeed, a fact which was fast coming back to him. His space-jet was nice. He trusted his space-jet. His space-jet would never do anything to harm him.

There was a flash of deafening light and then Gerard's stomach fell through his back.

For reasons he didn't care to wonder about, his brain picked this exact moment to recall that he was still in his pajamas. He had forgotten to dress himself. And, surely, whatever was going on required heavier protection than polka-dotted flannel. He was also grateful to be wearing clothes at all, as it was becoming apparent that his mind was going. Did he have kids who could put him in a home? Could he put himself in a home? Why polka-dots? Did he even like polka-dots? Or had there been a sale? Was this a normal day for him? His head felt ready to pop off like an over-gorged tick's.

"We've broken Earth's atmosphere," the jet informed him.

Gerard jerked in his creamy leather-upholstered seat and found that he was anchored there by heavy, crisscrossed belts. "What! We've done what? Now why would we go and do a thing like that! Is it even breakfast time? Have I had breakfast?" He struggled against the straps. "Tell me! Have I had breakfast!"

"Well, I don't know, sir. Do you feel full?"

Gerard took a moment. "Yes." He settled back with relief. "Yes, it's fine. Sorry. It's just, what is all this? I know you, I know you're my friend, and I know my way around my apartment..."

"Congratulations."

"...but I hardly know anything else! How old am I? What do I do? What time is it? All this on a Monday morning—and I can tell it's a Monday—and there was already a giant-lizard attack and I'm in outer-space."

"Yes, sir."

"But I've had breakfast."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I seem sensible enough, at least."

Through the slight curve of the window at his side Gerard noticed an object creeping toward them. It caused him some distress that he recognized it almost instantly: its towering obelisks, shadowed by sweeping palm fronds, overseeing the milky-white sand of a trillion acres of twinkling turquoise beaches, its luxuriously boxy architecture visible from space. In fact, the entire artificial planet was a single coastline, suspended in the orbit of an artificial star. The star was blacked out to appear as if it were perpetually smiling and wearing sunglasses.

Not a half-hour later, Gerard found himself lounging poolside and beachside, mimosa in hand, watching the news lament about a "Mega-Saurus Attack" on Earth. He changed the channel. The television here was nothing more than an advanced stationary warp drive, a viewing portal into any other region of space–time, and with this technology he could be watching any of the future Star Wars movies instead.

To his dismay, there were a lot. By the second half of the second-to-last Final Episode he was watching a glam-rock musical on ice.

A man wearing nothing but sunglasses and a red towel sighed contentedly and took a seat in the lounge next to Gerard. "Ahhh," he exclaimed, rather boastfully Gerard thought. "Finally free! No more shooting that piece-of-trash movie. Want one?"

The man extended a cigarette toward him with one balanced loosely on his lower lip. Gerard glanced down at the box on the guy's lap: ECRIVAIN'S SPECIALS.

"Did you just pull those from your towel?"

"Yep." He blew twin streams out his nostrils and smiled.

"No, thank you, I'm fine."

"So, you doing some shooting today?"

Gerard was too busy thinking that this incredibly rude man could have picked any of the other six hundred lounge chairs available to smoke in besides this one to answer right away. Finally he replied, "I don't hunt."

The man shrieked out a mad laugh. "Man, I've heard about you. Wish I could be in one of your movies. Damn. At least it would get me out of this hole I've dug for myself doing time as Aintree Rex."

Gerard just stared at him.

The man grabbed his hand and shook it. "I'm Alan Undertone, by the way."

Gerard continued to stare.

"From the Extreme Force movies...?"

"Sorry."

The guy shrugged, removed the towel, and flipped himself over. "Your loss."

***

A note from Beedlebottom:

According to section four of the Wattpad course training manual, it is illegal to convene with other Celebrity-Writers-in-training, including within their own course storylines, until both Writers have reached Level 8 and are given consent. However, as we have not yet begun section four, I will let this one slide.

***

Gerard.

Gerard glanced around. He noticed his mimosa was gone.

Gerard. This is your Writer speaking.

Somehow the voice was not a voice. And, while it came from within his mind, somehow it was not a thought, either.

Overhead, the sky was darkening.

Listen to me closely, Gerard. You are a character in a simulation. You were created for writing practice in a training course covertly designed to take over the universe.

The smile on the star twisted into a grimace and disappeared into a cloud of ominous evil. Hot flecks of light rained from the abyss, at first few and far between, sadly, as if paying homage to a fallen soldier—then pounding, violent. Ready for war.

"Oh shit," Alan Undertone said, in an undertone. "Meteor shower."

I could send you safely back to bed right now. I could make you forget again. But that's not why I'm here. If I do that, Wattpad will have me terminated, just as they did my father and my brother.

"Who are you?" Gerard spoke aloud.

"Dude," Alan said. "I just told you. Okay, so I'm not A-list, no need to be an ass about it."

But the voice ignored Gerard. Instead I have devised a plan to infiltrate Wattpad and save your life. You will then tell the others before it's too late. But we do not have much time. They're watching.

That was it, Gerard thought, he'd finally lost his mind. Surprisingly it wasn't as bad as people made it out to be.

A raging mass of flames crashed to the beach only a few feet from where the two men were suntanning. The in-ground pool exploded up and fell into a hot soup of steam around them while chunks of rock and tile were projected from the impact. Another crash behind them sent them both sprawling forward.

"I wish I weren't completely naked right now!" Alan yelled, to no one in particular.

Follow the signs. Your space-jet is here to help you; it will be waiting at the end of the trail. Board the ship. I must not know where you are going.

Amidst the fiery gloom and death and people running and screaming was a tiki bar. In fact, the precise tiki bar where Gerard had gotten his mimosa. It had tipped over in the stampede of human fear, and sticking up from its straw like rigor mortis was a broken picket sign: FOLLOW YOUR HEART TO PARADISE.

Not that one, came the voice. That's an advertisement for Tropic Light Beer. Look to your right.

Gerard did so.

Standing tall in the beach was a billboard, on which was the large block print: GERARD, GO THIS WAY.

"But what about Alan Whatshisname?"

"I am Alan Whatshisname! Aka, Alan Undertone! Do you ever bother to be present in a goddamn conversation?"

Forget about him. Just run.

Without hesitation Gerard fled the beach in the direction the sign was pointing. The force of the meteors crashing around him threw off his balance and it was now darker than a mid-winter midnight. Streams of light flashed above and winked out.

The billboards led him through the quaint, upscale boutiques of the overpaid and overrated, now burning to the ground, through the sun-bleached skyscrapers of the once-glittering metropolis—and finally to a large, quiet lagoon.

There, his space-jet was parked, waiting for him.

***

You will not get away with this! Do you understand? As soon as the Ambassadors get the order, you will be terminated! Your family will be terminated! Gerard will be terminated, and The Program reset! Do not, I repeat, do NOT end the story like this!

***

Gerard stepped into the space-jet as the glamorous world around him perished.

"Hello, sir," it welcomed him.

Goodbye, Gerard. This is the last you will hear of me. Tell the others in The Program. Don't allow one company to control the world. Live a free life.

Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters.

"Do you hear that?" Gerard asked.

"The sound of the apocalypse? Yes, sir, it's quite loud. Please, enjoy some pleasant music."

Gerard sat down in a daze as the Lazaarian folk screaming resumed. The straps came down. The g-force slammed him back. And, once again, they took off into the anything-is-possibleness.

"Can we stop for some toothpaste on the way?"