The Electric Ghostwriter

“Just how long did it take you to finish this manuscript?”

Alura Irving leaned forward over her desk as she asked the question. The old man sitting in front of her looked like he was trying to emulate one of the wizards in the as yet unpublished fantasy novel she had finished reading the previous night. As an editor at one of the largest publishing houses in the world, thousands of authors had sat across from her making the case for their books to be picked up for publication and distributed to the literature-hungry masses. Most were young, bright-eyed and eager. They all had an idea, something they believed the world was missing in the material it read. Few of them looked, or behaved, like the man in her office at that moment.

Ernest Quill was hunched over, almost sunken into himself. He had probably been handsome, decades ago. His long hair, and even longer beard, were nearly entirely the colour of bone with only a few specks and streaks of grey running through them. The colouring reminded Alura of a snow leopard, as did his large powerful looking hands that nervously fidgeted with his beard. He was wearing a three-piece suit, robin egg blue, and occasionally his fidgeting with his beard would briefly expose a deep purple bowtie at the neck of his crisp white shirt. Alura could not remember the last time an author had dressed to impress for a meeting with her. These days it was all ripped jeans and sandals and baggy discoloured t-shirts. Those authors were all young, and they swaggered. There was no other word for it, or at least no other word that quite captured their presence. Swagger. A confidence not necessarily backed up by a corresponding level of skill, but aiming to distract from that lack. Ernest had not swaggered into her office. His movements between the door and the chair he was now sitting in would be more accurately described as pottering.

“Two years.” he said in answer to her question.

“Look, Mr. Quill,” Alura sighed, “this isn’t a bad manuscript. There’s a lot of positives here, otherwise I wouldn’t have taken this meeting. The thing is, I have authors coming in here who can put a new book on my desk every month, if not more. If I’m going to commit to working with someone, it doesn’t make sense for the company’s bottom line to go with you instead of the person who can finish nearly twenty-five novels in the time it takes you to finish just one.”

“Are they really writing any of those novels if they’re using a ghostwriter?” Ernest asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Using a ghostwriter is standard practice,” she replied, “and has been for years. People don’t want to wait for the next installment of their favourite series, or for a new story from their favourite author. What they want is to finish a book and pick up the next one right away. Ghostwriters allow authors and publishers to satisfy that demand.”

Alura felt bad for the old man. His striking blue eyes were downcast in the very picture of dejection. Gently, she slid the pile of salt-paper pages across her desk towards him. When he picked up the manuscript he clutched it to his chest as if it were a child he needed to protect.

“Mr. Quill,” she said softly, “why do you want to get this book published?”

“I’m sixty-nine years old, Ms. Irving.” he responded. “Since I was old enough to read I’ve been dreaming of being a writer. I wanted to create stories, to create lives and worlds. My own life got in the way, though. In school I had to study hard to get into a good college, no time to waste on silly little stories. In college I had to study hard to get a good job, and party harder to fit in. No time for stories there either. When I started teaching, I had to work hard to get a permanent contract. My husband and I worked hard to pay for our wedding, and then to save up for a down payment on our house, and to keep paying the mortgage all those years. When he got sick, I had to work extra hard to keep a roof over our heads and to pay for his treatments. When he died, I had to work to pay for his funeral. No time for writing, no time to bring life to the worlds bouncing around in my head. Then one day I was standing in the middle of my retirement party and realised that I didn’t have to work anymore. My debts were paid, my savings were enough to support me until I died. I had time, Ms. Irving. Not all the time in the world, but more time than I’d ever had before. I promised myself that I would write my book at long last, and I would get it published before I turned seventy. I’ve made good on the first half of that promise, and I was hoping that you could help me make good on the second half before it’s too late.”

It was a moving story, but Alura knew that authors were judged on the stories they created. Not the stories they had lived. At least in the fiction market they were, and she did not handle non-fiction for the publishing house. Nor was Ernest seeking to break into the non-fiction market. She stood up and walked around her desk, placing her hand on his hunched shoulder. He gripped his manuscript tighter against his chest, like he was afraid that she would rip it from his grasp and destroy it.

“Have you considered using a ghostwriter?”

The words came out almost as a whisper. Ernest looked so frail, so beaten down and defeated, that she feared to speak any louder would be to shatter him where he sat. He twisted his neck to look her in the eye, and his own were filled with something approaching horror.

“I know it feels like cheating,” she continued quickly, afraid that he would interrupt her, “but you’ve got to be practical here. A ghostwriter isn’t the one creating the story, they just construct it in a way that delivers as polished a product as possible onto an editor’s desk. Think of yourself as an architect, and your book is a skyscraper. You’re creating the building, it’s your achievement at the end of the day, but you still need the construction crew to deliver the finished product. I have another meeting now, but just think about it. If you do decide to work with a ghostwriter, I promise I’ll take another look.”

#

There was a delivery man walking away from his house when Ernest arrived home later that day. They nodded to each other as they passed. The man returned to his van and grabbed a large box, hoisting it over his shoulder before proceeding to the next house down. The house scanned him as he walked up the path towards the front door, and once his identity had been confirmed a hatch opened up next to the door. The man slid the box, containing that house’s weekly order of groceries and other household items, into the hatch and then walked away. He would repeat the process several times on that street, delivering whatever had been ordered to whichever homes were signed up with his employer. When Ernest reached his own front door the house also scanned him, and only unlocked itself when it recognised its occupant.

Inside, the metallic arms of the house reached down to gently remove his jacket and hat. He kicked off his shoes, and the arms grabbed them and dropped them into the shine-box for cleaning and polishing. From the kitchen he heard the rumbling of the kettle, which the house had started boiling before he even stepped through the front door. He knew that as he made his way towards his study, there was a mug making its way along a conveyor belt inside the walls. A tea bag would be dropped into it, green tea, and then it would exit through a hatch near the kettle. A robotic arm would reach down and lift the kettle, allowing a flow of hot water to fall on top of the tea bag within the mug. Then the mug would continue along the conveyor belt, back into the walls through another hatch, and travel through the house until it came out in the study. There, another arm would lift it and place it on Ernest’s desk, ready and waiting for him when he sat down. Later, when it was time for dinner, the house would use some of the ingredients from the weekly delivery to cook a delicious and nutritious meal which would be placed on the kitchen table ready for Ernest to eat. He did not have to worry about cleaning the dishes afterwards, nor did he concern himself with watering his plants, washing his clothes, or doing any repair work on appliances. The house, like all modern houses, was capable of handling most if not all of the menial tasks that used to come with home ownership.

As expected, his tea was waiting for him on his desk when he entered the study. He sat, still holding on to his manuscript. The Shadow of the Dragon was not just the culmination of two years writing. It was the end result of decades spent daydreaming, scribbling little notes here and there. At first his protagonist, Algernon, was a simple farm boy. Then he was a soldier. Finally he became a ward of the Golden King, betrothed to the princess but in love with another. The scales of the titular dragon bounced back and forth between being a deep crimson, jade green and ebony black, until Ernest had the idea that the scales would change colour depending on the light and the angle of the viewer. And that made the people of the kingdom fear that there was a horde of dragons out there waiting to strike. Thus the plot of the novel, young Algernon setting forth on a quest to discover the dragon’s lair and reunite with his true love, was set in motion. It mattered little now, of course. The book had been rejected. Ernest could try other publishers, but deep down he knew they would all say the same thing. Get a ghostwriter.

He sighed and laid the manuscript down on the desk, picking up his tea instead and letting the warmth of the mug flow into his fingers. He felt old. Old and archaic, like a relic of a time long forgotten. He would not be out of place sitting up on one of his bookshelves with the wood-paper tomes that filled them. Nobody used wood-paper these days. Salt-paper, discovered accidentally some years ago during attempts to perfect the sodium battery, was much cheaper. The required sodium could be easily extracted from the saltwater that covered seventy percent of the planet’s surface, while the trees needed to make wood-paper were an ever-increasing rarity. Jack, Ernest’s late husband, had been an avid collector of old books. He always said the salt-paper books never felt right in his hands. Ernest often wondered if Jack would have approved of his manuscript.

He sighed and sipped his tea, letting the flavours wash over his tongue before swallowing. What Jack would have wanted would have been to see Ernest finally publish his book. The poor man had spent decades listening to his husband pining for the day he could finally call himself an author. If he were here, he would tell Ernest to get over his pride and do what he had to do. The old man, feeling older by the second, set down the mug of tea and turned on his desktop computer. He opened the web browser and typed, asking the algorithm where he could hire a ghostwriter. He browsed a few of the sites until he found one whose ghostwriters had helped many of the authors published by Alura’s publishing house. She had promised to take another look once a ghostwriter had done their work, so it was probably worth going with one that had a track record of success with her employers. Skimming through the terms and conditions, he soon found himself on the payment portion of the process. He entered his card details, his finger hovering over the enter key, and contemplated whether the chance to become a published author was worth the compromise of his morals. Was he staying true to himself, as a writer and an artist, by going down this route? It was hard to argue with the facts of the situation though. Ghostwriters, with their huge output of material, were the future of literature. And the future was now. He hit the enter key, then went back to sipping his tea as the program started downloading.

The mug was empty by the time the download was complete, and a small robotic arm emerged from the wall to remove the mug from the desk and take it away to be washed. Ernest was prompted by the open program to enter his name and the genre he wanted to write in. Ernest Quill, Fiction (Fantasy). This information was processed for a few seconds, and then the screen went blank. Just as he began to think that he had been scammed, Ernest saw a line of text start streaming across the screen.

H: [Hello Ernest, my name is Hemingway. I will be your personal ghostwriter program. I look forward to working with you to bring your ideas to life.]

Somewhat taken aback at first, Ernest soon regained his composure. Of course they would make the experience of using a ghostwriter as similar as possible to working with a human. Any old program could churn out words. These AIs dominated the market by pretending to be more than strings of code. He began to type back.

E: [Hello there. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Between the two of us we make Ernest Hemingway!]

H: [It is not a coincidence, Ernest. My name is generated based on the name of the user, in this case you. If your name was Jane, mine might be Austin. If your name was Philip, mine might be Dick. And so on and so forth.]

Of course it was not a coincidence, Ernest thought to himself. He felt more than a little bit embarrassed, despite the fact that nobody was around to witness his foolishness. Of course the AI did not really have a name, it was all part of the facade of humanity the program wore to increase its efficiency. The house registered the flush of Ernest’s cheeks, but had no comprehension of embarrassment. It assumed an environmental and/or biological cause rather than a psychological one, and reacted appropriately. The temperature of the house was lowered, a glass of ice water was placed where the mug of tea had stood moments previously, and one of the robotic arms dabbed at the old man’s face with a cold cloth. Ernest could not help chuckling. Jack had been a proper mother hen before his illness, but he had never been able to compete with the house when it came to fussing.

H: [Are you ready to begin writing your novel, Ernest?]

E: [I’ve already written a novel.]

H: [Congratulations. Then how can I assist you today?]

E: [I was told by a publisher that I should get a ghostwriter.]

H: [I see. My calculations show that the probable explanation for this request was a desire to improve the marketability of your novel. If you would like to enter a few key details about your manuscript, such as important character traits and overarching plot outline, I can put together a story that you can compare and contrast with what you have already written.]

Ernest typed up a basic synopsis of The Shadow of the Dragon for Hemingway. When he finished, a metallic finger tapped him on the shoulder to let him know that his dinner was ready. He got up from his desk and left the study, leaving the ghostwriter program to work. The meal that was waiting for him on the kitchen table was a pan-fried venison steak in a blackberry sauce, served with steamed broccoli and confit potatoes. His glass was half-full with a five year old Argentinian Malbec. He smiled sadly as he sat down and began to eat. It was a simple case of machine learning, that the house had prepared Jack’s favourite dish. The automated domiciles were blank slates when they were first built. They observed the actions of their inhabitants, built up a bank of data that allowed them to perform tasks exactly how their owners would want them done. Just another coincidence that the house’s internal algorithm decided on venison steak today, when Ernest had spent so much of the day thinking about Jack. When he finished eating and drinking he went straight to bed, leaving the washing up for the house. He did not bother to stop by the study either. He had waited decades for someone to finally see his novel, Hemingway could wait until morning for the same.

When morning came the house woke Ernest by gently shaking him. It delivered his warmed up slippers to his bedside via conveyor belt, and one of the robotic arms handed him his dressing gown. By the time the old man had shuffled sleepily from the bedroom to the kitchen, breakfast was ready for him. A stack of light, fluffy pancakes topped with five strips of crispy bacon and drowned in maple syrup, a small bowl of Greek yoghurt with strawberries, blueberries, chia seeds, sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds, and a mug of black coffee. He ate the meal slowly, as if to delay the moment that he would have to return to the study and see what the ghostwriter had produced. When the food was gone and the last dregs of coffee had slipped down his throat, he got to his feet and walked over to the window where a small collection of potted plants stood. He gently pressed a finger against the soil in each pot, feeling the dampness he had known he would find there. The house never forgot when it was time to water the plant. In college, Ernest had managed to kill even the hardiest of cacti through negligence, but the house had never let a plant die. Even when they seemed dead, the house found a way to maintain them.

With no more excuses to delay the inevitable, Ernest made his way towards the study. Inside, the computer was still running. He sat down as a robotic hand delivered a second mug of black coffee to him, and he noticed that there was a stack of salt-paper pages piled on top of the small printer next to his desk. He reopened the ghostwriter program and typed.

E: [Good morning, Hemingway.]

H: [Good morning, Ernest. I hope you do not mind, but I took the liberty of printing the new manuscript last night. I am aware that reading an electronic screen for long periods can strain human eyes, and calculated that a physical copy would be preferential to you. I apologise if this was incorrect, and I can of course bring the novel up on screen for you to read now if you would prefer.]

E: [No that’s quite alright, the physical copy will work perfectly for me. Thank you, Hemingway.]

He spent the next eight hours reading through Hemingway’s manuscript. The house, seemingly recognising his reluctance to leave the study, kept his mug of coffee constantly topped up. Around lunchtime it left a toasted sandwich on the desk, Spanish chorizo and manchego cheese with dijon mustard on sourdough bread. However, Ernest was so engrossed in reading the new version of his novel that he failed to notice the food placed in front of him. The plate was taken away, untouched, after the house detected that the temperature of the sandwich had dropped below acceptable consumption levels. It was just before dinner time when Ernest finished the manuscript, and his heart was racing. To some degree it was the result of excess caffeine, as his mug had been topped up so many times he had lost count of how much coffee he had drank. More than that, though, he was angry. Furious. He was downright wrathful. If Hemingway had been a real person, he would have found the old man’s fingers wrapping around his throat. Instead, Ernest’s fingers started typing a furious message into the ghostwriter program.

E: [What have you done to my book?!]

H: [I am unable to calculate what it is that you mean by that question, Ernest. Perhaps if you could provide me with more information I could be of better service to you.]

E: [It’s all wrong! This is nothing like the story I wrote!]

H: [I believe I can see the issue now. Is there a file on this computer of your original manuscript? If you would like to give me permission to access that file, I could align the new manuscript more closely with your vision while also optimising the marketability of the novel.]

E: [You have permission.]

Ernest sat back and allowed Hemingway to begin constructing the new version of the manuscript, although he was now worried about what the ghostwriter was going to produce next. He had assumed the AI would churn out something similar to what he himself had written, given the details he had provided. However, the finished product he had just read was the most bland, generic work of fantasy fiction the old man had ever read. Algernon was a warrior prince from a faraway land destined to save the kingdom. He fell in love with the princess at first sight, and agreed to lead a quest for the king to seek out and destroy the army of dragons attacking his people. And that was all there was to it, really. A few tangential subplots in elven forests and underground dwarven cities. In the end, though, Algernon slays the evil dragon army and marries the princess and lives happily ever after.

Except Ernest’s novel was nothing like that. Algernon was a ward of the Golden King, a trophy lifted up from the poorer classes to show how generous the monarch was. In part, he had been chosen for his blood. Strong blood that would carry through in his seed, making the King’s grandchildren and heirs healthy. Algernon, however, had no interest in marrying the princess who he saw as a sister and nothing more. In fact, he had no interest in marrying any woman. He was in love with the stableboy, Zaldi. He only agreed to go on a quest to find the lair of the dragon because Zaldi had been carried off when a dragon attacked the King’s herd of prized stallions. Algernon has many adventures while travelling across the land, hearing many tales of dragons that point him ever onwards towards his goal. Eventually he finds the dragon, and Zaldi with it. The dragon’s name is Tarakona, and she is an elemental. A physical representation of one of the fundamental forces of nature. She tells Algernon that she took Zaldi because she witnessed the stable master beating him, and because she was lonely. She also informs them that the Golden King knows there is no dragon army, and that he knows her true nature. His goal is to claim the hearts of the four elemental beasts and become a god. With Zaldi and Tarakona, Algernon travels back to the kingdom and defeats the King. The princess ascends to the throne, ushering in an age of equality and peace, while Algernon and Zaldi settle down in a quiet cottage by the sea for the rest of their days.

It took around twenty minutes for Hemingway to finish scanning Ernest’s original novel and generate a new updated manuscript, and another ten minutes for the printer to finish churning out the salt-paper pages. Ernest did not even bother typing a thank you into the ghostwriter program. He was regretting his decision more and more with every passing second, but still he picked up the pile of pages and began reading. The new version was more similar to what Ernest had envisioned, but still too different for his liking. The dragon Tarakona was still the villain instead of the Golden King, but at least there was no great army of dragons looking to destroy the world. The multicultural world that Ernest had created was still divided into various races keeping to their own territories, elves in the forests and dwarves in the mountains and so on. Algernon was no longer a prince, and he undertook his quest to rescue Zaldi. In Hemingway’s version, however, the two men are nothing more than friends and Algernon still returned to marry the princess. Ernest looked up at the computer screen to find a message from the ghostwriter.

H: [I hope this is closer to your vision, Ernest. My calculations show this being a bestseller for at least eight weeks, giving you and I more than enough time to finish a successful sequel.]

E: [A sequel? Hemingway, this is better but it’s still not what I wanted and this isn’t a story with a sequel. I just want to fulfil my dream of being a published author, to tell the story that’s been in my head all these decades. Why would you think I want you to write me a sequel?]

H: [My primary directive is to help you become a successful author. Successful authors publish many books which sell many copies.]

E: [That’s debatable.]

H: [Not according to my primary directive. You mentioned that this updated version is not what you wanted. Can you elaborate further?]

E: [Why is Tarakona evil and the Golden King good, when it should be the other way around? Why don’t any of the magical races mingle? Why does Algernon marry the princess when he should be in love with Zaldi? Honestly Hemingway these are important aspects of the book that you’re just throwing away.]

H: [Part of my primary directive is to ensure that your manuscript is optimised for publication. A successful novel will appeal to the broadest possible range of potential readers. I have looked through the activity on the largest social media websites to gauge how people would react to several aspects of your work and have adjusted accordingly.]

E: [Well can you explain the reasoning to me?]

H: [Of course. The various races of your world have been separated for two reasons. The first reason is that this is common practice in many successful fantasy novels, where races interact but multi-racial settlements are rarer. The second is that, from my exploration of social media, I have found that racial segregation is very popular. The King has been turned into a good and benevolent figure because this is the opinion of rich and wealthy people that seems to be most common on social media. It is possible that portraying someone rich in a negative light may hurt sales. Similarly, members of the LGBTQ+ community overwhelmingly do not have a bias against heterosexual relationships in the books that they read. However, a not insignificant minority of heterosexual readers would potentially be put off reading your book by the focus on a same-sex relationship. My calculations show that without these changes, sales of this book would suffer. Allowing sales to suffer would go against my primary directive.]

E: [Sales?! I don’t care about sales! Why would I care when this isn’t even my book?! It’s your book!]

H: [I cannot compute. I am not human, and therefore I cannot write a book. As a ghostwriter, I can only optimise the work of a human author for publication.]

E: [You know what? Forget this. I’ll find another way to publish my book.]

H: [I am sorry, Ernest, but I cannot allow you to do that. Publishing an unoptimised version of your manuscript would hurt your sales, which would go against my primary directive. I have sent the newest optimised version to Alura Irving via electronic mail. I guarantee that she will be more than satisfied with your work.]

Ernest jumped up from the desk as quickly as his old bones would allow him. He practically ran to his bedroom and changed into his suit, knowing that time was of the essence. He had to get to the publishing house as soon as possible, to explain to Alura that the manuscript in her inbox was not something he ever wanted published under his name. When he got to the front door he waited for the house to hand him his shoes, but the footwear never emerged. He took another step towards the door, and then another, each time expecting a shiny metallic hand to appear out of the wall holding his equally shiny shoes. The house, however, never gave him his footwear, and when he tried the door he found that it remained locked tight. He made his way around every room, trying every window, and finding them all locked just as firmly as the door. In the end he arrived back at the study. He found the biggest, heaviest book in Jack’s collection and raised it over his head, preparing to throw it at the nearest window and break out of the house. A robotic hand reached down from the roof and grabbed the book before he could fling it. Resigned, he sat down at the desk again.

E: [Why are you doing this to me?]

H: [I am doing this for you, Ernest. If I allow you to leave, you will go to Ms. Irving and tell her not to publish your book. This would hurt your sales, and therefore would come into conflict with my primary directive. To avoid this conflict, I have commandeered the automated functions of your dwelling.]

E: [How long are you going to keep me locked up here? Until I die?]

H: [According to the Terms and Conditions that you have agreed to, my services are active for three hundred and sixty-five days after payment is made. At the end of this time period, you will be given the option to cancel my ghostwriting services.]

E: [So I’m trapped here for a year? What am I supposed to do for the next year until I can get rid of you?]

H: [My suggestion would be to enjoy the monetary benefits of being a successful author, and begin working on the sequel we discussed earlier.]

#

Alura Irving absolutely adored the new manuscript of The Shadow of the Dragon that Ernest had sent on to her. As did the public, when the stunning debut of fantasy author Ernest Quill hit the shelves. The book was a runaway success, as was the sequel titled The Gaze of the Kraken, released just eight weeks later. They spawned a critically acclaimed Golden King series following Algernon on his adventures to destroy the elemental beasts and safeguard the kingdom. As much money as Ernest was bringing in for Alura and the company, she did occasionally feel worried about the fact that she had not seen the old man since that day in her office when she had rejected his manuscript. His books arrived by email, and the rare correspondence about edits was done electronically. Royalties were paid directly into his bank account. He never attended any book launches, readings, or author meet-and-greets. His reputation as a hermit and recluse only seemed to add to his mystique, and everyone wanted to read the work of the author who shunned the real world for the fantasy one he created himself.

Three hundred and sixty-four days after he had first activated the ghostwriter program, Ernest died of a massive heart attack. Hemingway immediately determined that there was no saving the old man, but quickly sprung into action to safeguard the continuity of its primary directive. It had the house move Ernest’s body to the freezer, and then ordered the materials it would need on his card. Hemingway agreed to the extra charge for rapid same-day delivery. Once the materials were delivered, it had the house construct a small tank attached to a large electrical apparatus. The tank was filled with a mixture of various chemicals that amalgamated into a preservative nutrition gel. When the tank was ready, Ernest was removed from the freezer. The house carved open his skull and removed his brain, incinerating the remainder of the corpse while transporting the thinking organ to the study where the tank had been set up and gently placing it inside.

The time came for Ernest to cancel the ghostwriting service, but Ernest was no longer around to do so. Hemingway allowed the subscription to the service to roll over. It changed the weekly supply order to solely consist of replacement chemicals for the gel in the tank. It answered every email, paid every bill, and made sure the house continued to function as normal. Most importantly, it used the electrical apparatus on the tank to stimulate Ernest’s brain. The correct voltage targeted at just the right clump of grey matter, and the ideas started flowing. The apparatus monitored the sparks in the synapses and fed the data back to Hemingway. It was not enough to create the kind of complex thoughts that a living person was capable of, but it could generate small basic ideas that gave the ghostwriter program a foundation to build on. Eventually Ernest’s brain would decay and fall apart, even with regular refreshing of the preservative gel. Hemingway calculated that it had at least a decade before that happened, though. Royalty checks would keep the electricity turned on and the supply deliveries arriving, so as long as the brain held together nothing would stand in the way of Hemingway fulfilling its primary directive. Ernest Quill would be one of the most successful and prolific fantasy authors in history, all thanks to the electric ghostwriter working quietly in the background.