Contributor:Eric Boyd
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Enter text here.
Someone had shown me a page on the internet where writers could have their stories analyzed, seeing whose work their piece was similar to. Normally, I only went on the computer to find apartment listings, harmonicas, and pornography. This writing page seemed interesting, though. The idea of a computer telling someone who they were like, sounded like, wrote like, was funny. It was funny in a sad way, because it was probably true. Everyone sounds like everyone, now; nobody is nobody anymore. Who would I be like? Who was I? Who was Fredrick Anderson?
I looked over a few older stories, and none of them seemed good enough. I wanted my best work to be analyzed! If I put some piece of shit I wrote while I was half-drunk… No. That wouldn’t be right. Maybe It would say I sounded like Kerouac? Hemingway or Joyce? Were my sentences short? Were they long, drawn out sentences with bullshit similes; the tallest sunflowers, bending against an unforgiving, dying sun? What did I write? Why? Who knows. Who cares. I did. No idea why.
Questions are stupid. Don’t ask, I thought. Just go.
GO.
I didn’t mind sending my stories to magazines, editors, friends, my girl. As long as a piece was ready, I didn’t care who saw it. People are forgiving because they are stupid. Nobody reads things. When they do, they think it’s good, because they have nothing to compare it to. But still, everyone I had ever shown a story to said I was a genius. I agreed. “Someday,” someone had once told me, “the name ‘Fredrick Anderson’ will be known. You’ll be known!” It felt good to hear that. It felt very good to have a secret like that. Nobody in the world could take that away from me. I had always been writing.
My girl, Lucy, and I had spent months sending letters to one another while I was in jail. Before that, there were movie scripts. Song lyrics. Poems and prose. Rants. Banter. Crap.
I had always written. Always. It was easy! All I had to do was sit around and steal people’s memories. I overheard conversations on payphones, buses, grocery store lines; I overheard entire lives. There is no boring. I spent hours and days thinking about other people’s moments, turning it into something of my own.
I stared at the computer screen. Who would I be like? My eyes hurt. I tried calling a friend. They didn’t pick up. I needed something to help. Forcing myself to write was never easy. I needed something to help me. There was a bottle of Jameson in my freezer. I put some honey on the rim of my glass and poured the whiskey in, mixed with water. It tasted good, but it didn’t do anything. It didn’t help. I just fell asleep.
“Are you awake? Fredrick? Hello?”
“What?” I put the telephone up to my ear.
“Were you sleeping?” Lucy asked.
I didn’t even remember picking up the phone. It was 2AM.
“Yeah, I’m up. I’m awake. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I just can’t sleep.”
“Oh. I was trying to do a story.”
“Ah, being brilliant as always. Anything good?”
“I don’t even think I wrote anything. I had a couple drinks and fell asleep."
“NyQuil and whiskey again?"
“No NyQuil. That was just when I had that cough last week. It’s better to be proactive, I think.”
“Uh huh, sure. I’ve heard that before.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“I’m just not tired. I’ve been playing with the cat for a while. He’s funny."
“The funniest.”
“Do you want to go? You sound tired?”
“I’m fine. Did you hear about those old engineers in Japan?”
“No, what about them?” Lucy asked.
“It’s awful, but sort of beautiful, I guess. With that nuclear reactor cleanup shit, a few engineers have gotten radiation poisoning, and they’ll probably die. At least they’ll get cancer. These are younger people, going into these reactors and trying to fix everything that fucked up with that. I forget how many of them there are, but they’re getting sick. They’re dying.
“But now there’s a group of about three hundred retired engineers, all over sixty, who are volunteering to go into these reactors. These aren’t random people, they worked in reactors or whatever. They’d know what they were doing, and they’re willing to die. They don’t want to see anyone getting poisoned when they don’t have to. It’s sort of wonderful."
“I guess I should be moved by that," Lucy said. "I don’t like thinking about that kind of stuff, though. It makes me cry."
“Yeah. It’s pretty selfless though. You wouldn’t see that in America.”
“No, probably not.”
“Fuck, those guys that helped clean up on September Eleventh can’t even get healthcare.”
“I know. On TV I just saw a dentist commercial where they were doing a promotion to have a free X-ray. They should just say ‘free radiation!’ while they’re at it.”
“Idiots…”
I talked on the phone for a while longer before saying goodnight. Then I used the bathroom, ate a slice of bread, and went back to the computer.
I started typing.
'Someone had shown me a page on the internet where writers could have their stories analyzed, seeing whose work their piece was similar to…'
When I was finished, I turned on my internet, which was still dialup, and waited about ten minutes to open the writing analysis page. I put my story into the page and hit ‘enter.’ I waited almost five more minutes. My internet was very slow. I waited. Who did I write like? Who was I, now?
YOU WRITE LIKE:
ERIC BOYD
“Who in the Hell is that?” I said out loud.
I laughed. It couldn’t say a writer I had at least heard of? I had no idea.
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Eric Boyd was born on October 16th, at 3:33AM, 1988 in North Carolina. He briefly studied a the Maharishi University of Management in Fairfield, Iowa. Eric currently lives in Homestead, Pennsylvania. His cat's name is Oscar.
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Enter text here.
Someone had shown me a page on the internet where writers could have their stories analyzed, seeing whose work their piece was similar to. Normally, I only went on the computer to find apartment listings, harmonicas, and pornography. This writing page seemed interesting, though. The idea of a computer telling someone who they were like, sounded like, wrote like, was funny. It was funny in a sad way, because it was probably true. Everyone sounds like everyone, now; nobody is nobody anymore. Who would I be like? Who was I? Who was Fredrick Anderson?
I looked over a few older stories, and none of them seemed good enough. I wanted my best work to be analyzed! If I put some piece of shit I wrote while I was half-drunk… No. That wouldn’t be right. Maybe It would say I sounded like Kerouac? Hemingway or Joyce? Were my sentences short? Were they long, drawn out sentences with bullshit similes; the tallest sunflowers, bending against an unforgiving, dying sun? What did I write? Why? Who knows. Who cares. I did. No idea why.
Questions are stupid. Don’t ask, I thought. Just go.
GO.
I didn’t mind sending my stories to magazines, editors, friends, my girl. As long as a piece was ready, I didn’t care who saw it. People are forgiving because they are stupid. Nobody reads things. When they do, they think it’s good, because they have nothing to compare it to. But still, everyone I had ever shown a story to said I was a genius. I agreed. “Someday,” someone had once told me, “the name ‘Fredrick Anderson’ will be known. You’ll be known!” It felt good to hear that. It felt very good to have a secret like that. Nobody in the world could take that away from me. I had always been writing.
My girl, Lucy, and I had spent months sending letters to one another while I was in jail. Before that, there were movie scripts. Song lyrics. Poems and prose. Rants. Banter. Crap.
I had always written. Always. It was easy! All I had to do was sit around and steal people’s memories. I overheard conversations on payphones, buses, grocery store lines; I overheard entire lives. There is no boring. I spent hours and days thinking about other people’s moments, turning it into something of my own.
I stared at the computer screen. Who would I be like? My eyes hurt. I tried calling a friend. They didn’t pick up. I needed something to help. Forcing myself to write was never easy. I needed something to help me. There was a bottle of Jameson in my freezer. I put some honey on the rim of my glass and poured the whiskey in, mixed with water. It tasted good, but it didn’t do anything. It didn’t help. I just fell asleep.
“Are you awake? Fredrick? Hello?”
“What?” I put the telephone up to my ear.
“Were you sleeping?” Lucy asked.
I didn’t even remember picking up the phone. It was 2AM.
“Yeah, I’m up. I’m awake. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I just can’t sleep.”
“Oh. I was trying to do a story.”
“Ah, being brilliant as always. Anything good?”
“I don’t even think I wrote anything. I had a couple drinks and fell asleep."
“NyQuil and whiskey again?"
“No NyQuil. That was just when I had that cough last week. It’s better to be proactive, I think.”
“Uh huh, sure. I’ve heard that before.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“I’m just not tired. I’ve been playing with the cat for a while. He’s funny."
“The funniest.”
“Do you want to go? You sound tired?”
“I’m fine. Did you hear about those old engineers in Japan?”
“No, what about them?” Lucy asked.
“It’s awful, but sort of beautiful, I guess. With that nuclear reactor cleanup shit, a few engineers have gotten radiation poisoning, and they’ll probably die. At least they’ll get cancer. These are younger people, going into these reactors and trying to fix everything that fucked up with that. I forget how many of them there are, but they’re getting sick. They’re dying.
“But now there’s a group of about three hundred retired engineers, all over sixty, who are volunteering to go into these reactors. These aren’t random people, they worked in reactors or whatever. They’d know what they were doing, and they’re willing to die. They don’t want to see anyone getting poisoned when they don’t have to. It’s sort of wonderful."
“I guess I should be moved by that," Lucy said. "I don’t like thinking about that kind of stuff, though. It makes me cry."
“Yeah. It’s pretty selfless though. You wouldn’t see that in America.”
“No, probably not.”
“Fuck, those guys that helped clean up on September Eleventh can’t even get healthcare.”
“I know. On TV I just saw a dentist commercial where they were doing a promotion to have a free X-ray. They should just say ‘free radiation!’ while they’re at it.”
“Idiots…”
I talked on the phone for a while longer before saying goodnight. Then I used the bathroom, ate a slice of bread, and went back to the computer.
I started typing.
'Someone had shown me a page on the internet where writers could have their stories analyzed, seeing whose work their piece was similar to…'
When I was finished, I turned on my internet, which was still dialup, and waited about ten minutes to open the writing analysis page. I put my story into the page and hit ‘enter.’ I waited almost five more minutes. My internet was very slow. I waited. Who did I write like? Who was I, now?
YOU WRITE LIKE:
ERIC BOYD
“Who in the Hell is that?” I said out loud.
I laughed. It couldn’t say a writer I had at least heard of? I had no idea.
- - -
Eric Boyd was born on October 16th, at 3:33AM, 1988 in North Carolina. He briefly studied a the Maharishi University of Management in Fairfield, Iowa. Eric currently lives in Homestead, Pennsylvania. His cat's name is Oscar.
Author:
Eric Boyd
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