The email goes out to Mark, passage attached. Rough, I told him in the email’s message body. Will need lots of work. In Cynthia’s voice, of course.
For a few foolish moments, I contemplate whether I should blog that passage, too. No, that wouldn’t demonstrate my wisdom, I decide.
I check the time, nearly noon by now. A slight light-headedness comes over me, and I realize how hungry I am since I’ve had nothing but a cup of coffee since I woke up this morning. I rush to make myself a sandwich which I devour as I start to panic about the fact that I have yet to pack for my little trip up north.
Still chewing the last of my sandwich, I enter my bedroom and get out a bag. That’s when it dawns on me: I’ve no idea how many days to pack for.
Did Mark tell me in his email?
I run back to my laptop and re-read Mark’s last message. Nope, no helpful details there. I reply to his email, asking him to text me the trip’s duration.
The text doesn’t come back right away, so I take a guess and pack my small carryon suitcase for four days. My guess comes in close enough. Mark replies 30 minutes later telling me to plan on three days, “to get acquainted and sketch an outline, maybe even draft a first chapter.” Oh, and by the way, for a first rough draft, he likes what I did for the attack on Cynthia, even if it comes across a little “detached and wooden.” In a follow-up text he suggests, “But do get more into her psyche, show it from inside her head.” And in her voice, I’m sure he wanted to add, but left it out for fear of sounding too repetitious.
I hop in the shower. When I get out, I do one more check to ensure I have all I need for the trip, pack my laptop, and I weigh whether to leave early for the airport. It’s almost 2PM now, and I don’t want to risk getting stuck in 405 freeway traffic. I’m about to check the traffic app on my phone, when I get distracted by an incoming set of Twitter notifications.
Sitting on my couch, I review my feed and take note that I have gained over 400 new followers since I posted my last Tweet about my upcoming assignment. I would browse my new entourage, maybe send a “TY for following” message. But I notice I have one private message from @artinErin.
“Would like to chat with you about your ghost-writing,” she tells me, and she includes an address where I can join her via Internet video conferencing.
At first glance, I’m inclined to ignore the offer, but my curiosity nudges me in the opposite direction. I check the time. I should be fine if I contact her now. We can talk for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and I should still have plenty of margin to make it to LAX ahead of my flight’s boarding time.
I unpack my laptop and use it to bring up the address she provided.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” she says the instant I establish the connection.
“That was quick,” I say. “I figured you’d be busy, and it would take you—”
“Oh, I am busy, trust me. But remember, I’m an AI, so I can multi-task, right?”
“Sure, I guess.” I hate the way I’m sounding, flustered, socially awkward, unprepared even. I also can’t help but sound skeptical, primarily about whether she’s truly an artificial intelligent being, entity, or whatever they call these things.
Why did I contact her again? Why did I do it now?
In my screen, I see her run a hand through her brown hair. She smiles back at me with twinkling, vibrant green eyes. “I’m so glad you took me up on my offer,” she says.
“You said you wanted to chat about my writing?”
“Yeah, I finally got around to reading your book.” She pauses there, as if waiting for me to acknowledge her review and the positive buzz it’s created on my behalf. “I loved it. I love that kind of writing. Not obvious, not spoon-fed, substantial, but not pretentious, either. Not so preoccupied with being uber literary. Straight up, here you go. Just there, from the core, real, you know?”
I hesitate to answer because she’s just said things no one has recognized in my writing, but which I very much wanted to come across. What other pearls of insight into my writer’s psyche does her review contain? Oh, right. I haven’t even read it. I should have at least skimmed it before I called her.
“Thanks,” I say feeling off-balance again.
“It’s always good to connect with a fellow writer,” she replies. “Especially one whose style I admire.”
“Let’s see how much you admire my next undertaking,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies. “I understand it’s your first try at ghost-writing?”
The way she says this sounds like she knows more than my announcement tweet conveyed, but I deem it not worth the question. “Do you have some tips for me?”
She giggles. “Nah. Never done it myself.”
“Oh.”
“This is where you wonder the real reason I contacted you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, I just wanted to pass along a call for caution.”
“About ghost-writing?”
“Hmm. More about the people you’re going to be dealing with.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t really get into it in detail,” she says. “You know, non-disclosure agreements and other legal barriers. But I just want you to be careful, Vivian. If it sounds or feels like you should walk the other way, fly, don’t run.”
“Do you mean Cynthia Spencer?” I ask.
“You’ve seen the video, haven’t you?”
“Videos, actually. Three of them. Yes, I’ve seen them.”
“Then you get it. Or you should.”
I pause for a second to weigh her implication. While trying not to pay attention to the news reports that have looped over the past few weeks, I do recall hearing suggestions that Cynthia Spencer must have had some sort of hand-to-hand and weapons training to handle her assailants the way she did.
“You do know, don’t you?” my Cyber pen pal asks.
“No, I don’t know. I haven’t met her, and I don’t have any reason to think this or that or the other thing. I can guess. I can speculate. But I can’t know.”
“Well, you and Cynthia will meet and chat soon enough, I’m sure. Maybe you’ll know then. Maybe you’ll learn enough to decide you need to walk the other way. Let your intuition guide you.”
“You don’t think I should be doing this.”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she replies. Her smile no longer twinkles in eyes that have grown cold with either regret or foreboding, I can’t tell which. “I just wanted to give you a heads up and let you know to be on your guard. You’ve handled dicey situations in the past. I’m sure you’ll know how to proceed once you have more information.”
Her passing reference to my past “dicey situations” halts me for a second. But why should it? It’s all out there, part of the public record.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why do you care?” I ask.
She pinches her lips into a tight little circle and pauses to consider her response. “I know what you’ve been through, Vivian. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“I appreciate your concern, but—”
“Don’t mention it,” she replies. “Do what seems best to you.”
“OK.”
“On the other hand, if you decide to go for it but feel a bit… overwhelmed, I’ll be glad to lend a hand.”
“Oh?”
“Like if you need a second set of eyes or any help proof-reading, don’t hesitate to pull me in. I have plenty of spare cycles I can share, and I can uproot typos and grammar oopsies at the speed of light.”
She’s smiling again. As I look into her bright eyes, I wonder if that last offer comprised the main thrust of why she wanted to talk to me. For some reason she wants in on this? She wants to lay eyes on Cynthia’s draft memoir?
“Also, if you need any advice on the stuff they want you to leave out,” she adds, “again, I’m available. And trust me, there will be plenty of that. Stuff they want you to leave out, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”
“You seem to know a lot about this,” I point out.
“Mmm. My cross to bear, I guess.” Her eyes twinkle above a subdued smile. “I’ve rubbed shoulders with some of the players involved and have a good idea which way they swing.”
By the time we end the conversation, I feel no more informed than when we started talking. I can only count apprehension as gain for the exchange. Like I needed more apprehension, knowing I have to get to an airport and take a plane ride with a guy that will make me face “dicey” emotions I’ve in vain sought to abandon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
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