Writers Can't Play God

The low hum of Gunther’s computer firing up was quickly drowned out by the bass of his daughter’s stereo in her room above his den. The den was supposed to be his quiet place, where he could retire after a rough day at work and just mellow out among his manuscripts. But at this rate he wouldn’t get any work done. He took his Louisville Slugger bat off its hook on the wall and rapped the ceiling with it. “Laura, turn down that music!” he snapped loudly.

After a few moments, the music volume lowered, and Gunther heard his daughter’s voice call out, “Sorry, Daddy!”

Gunther grumbled as he returned the bat to its spot on the wall. It was the bat that he had used in his office baseball game several summers ago to hit a home run in the bottom of the eighth to win the game. It had once been one of his most prized possessions, but he rarely even looked at it now. Lately, he also hadn’t been as active as he used to be, spending more time in his den than outdoors. He had gained several pounds and allowed his beard to grow unchecked. His wife, Donna, was still getting used to it whenever she kissed him.

It had been a little over five months since he switched to a part-time teaching job so he could devote more time to his writing. He wrote primarily short stories and novelettes, and some of his stories had been published in various local literary magazines.

Donna was proud of his achievements, though she would sometimes joke that Gunther was married more to his stories than to her. Though she was kidding, there were times when she really did feel that way, and Gunther vowed that as soon as he got the book deal he was looking for, he would take her on a cruise so they could spend some time alone together.

Gunther inserted the floppy disk and called up the current story file on the word processor. The document was about eight pages long so far and nearly completed. All he had to do was insert a new scene that he had written the day before into page four, and he could send the manuscript off to his editor.

She looked into his hard, almost lifeless eyes for what she thought would be the last time. The tropical sun beat down upon their tanned faces. Trevor wanted to speak, but his throat was parched. He wished he had accepted the native’s offer of water earlier.

Gunther’s own throat was getting rather dry for some reason. He reached into the miniature fridge next to his desk and selected a bottle of spring water. As he swallowed the cool liquid, he felt refreshed and ready to type what Trevor would do next.

He held her soft arms in his, returning her gaze. Her tear-filled eyes were the color of the ocean in the background. They had spent a week of love and passion together in paradise, and now Erica had just told him that she didn’t know what she wanted in life. How was he supposed to react to that? He loved her more than anything or anyone else he ever had in his life.

His fingers were sweating profusely as they tapped away at the keyboard. Instead of the aroma of the pork chops that Donna was cooking, he could smell Trevor’s cologne and the sand and salt of the beach.

Trevor kissed her once, deeply, relishing the sudden knowledge that their moments together were at an end. He plunged his knife into her side and watched the life drain from her slowly as she looked back at him, puzzled, and in wonder. She hadn’t known what she wanted, but now she could never want anyone else.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, clicking on the icon to print the document and then dancing like a child about the room.

“Ok, sweetie, your story is finished now. Care to spend some time with us for a change?” Donna’s voice summoned him to the dining room. Now he could smell the pork chops, and the smell made his stomach growl.

Gunther didn’t say a word as he slowly made his way to the table, and as he took a seat he made acknowledging glances to his daughters.

As usual, not much was discussed at the dinner table: Laura’s day at school, the new boyfriend Beth had met at the library, the minor car collision Donna had witnessed on her way to the vet.

“You know,” Donna said, “Smokey has been really sick lately. I'm worried about him." She sighed and added, “And that damned truck almost hit me, too.”

Gunther swallowed a piece of pork chop and the distant look in his eyes vanished. “I’m worried about Trevor. He may have over-reacted to something his girlfriend said. She’s fickle, you know.”

It was as though he were talking about a real person rather than a character in his fiction. The first few times his family had been happy to see such enthusiasm in his writing, but it was beginning to seem more like an obsession, and it worried them.

“Dad, he’s only a character,” Beth said, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Let him rest.”

“Only a character?” Gunther’s eyes widened and he glared at his daughter as if she had committed some cardinal sin. “He’s a person! I created him! Don’t insult the creator!” So much emotion was evident in Gunther’s voice that Beth cowered back in her seat, wishing she could take back her comments.

“Beth, you and your sister take the dirty dishes into the kitchen, please,” Donna asked, giving her nineteen-year-old a reassuring look. The girls nodded and began clearing the table of the dishes. Donna remained at the table with her husband, who was staring off into space out the dining room window.

“You scared her, Oz.” Oz was Donna’s pet name for Gunther, playing on his middle name of Oswald. She hoped using it would calm him down.

Sighing, Gunther turned to face her. “She said Trevor was only a character. That is an insult to him, and to me.” His earlier irate look was now replaced by one of sadness. Donna placed her hand on his comfortingly and looked into his eyes with concern.

“But she’s right. You’re a writer, Oz, not a god.”

The fire in Gunther’s eyes rekindled. “I’m their god, and their creator. They need me.” He looked his wife in the eye and said, “They are my family.”

Pulling his hands away from Donna’s, he stood up and marched into the den, closing and locking the door behind him. Laura and Beth, who had their ears pressed against the kitchen door, retreated to the sink to finish their chores.

The next few days Gunther imprisoned himself in his den, away from his family and the few co-workers who had stopped by to see him. He hadn’t even come out to eat, and if it wasn’t for the small bathroom he had annexed on to the den he would have had to come out at some point. What he was doing or working on only Gunther knew, and his reclusiveness further confirmed Donna’s suspicions that he was having a “nervous breakdown,” whatever that might mean. But what brought this on, and why?

And then one Monday morning a phone call came for Gunther. The caller introduced himself as Mr. Cross, and spoke to Donna of a book deal. While something about it seemed odd, Donna felt a faint shimmer of hope that this might bring her husband back to normality. Perhaps a book deal would make possible the cruise he had promised her and that would further help his condition.

The call was transferred to the den, where Gunther answered it. He was on the phone for some time before coming out. His normally well-trimmed beard was scraggly and unkempt, and his eyes were bloodshot. Hadn’t he slept at all the whole time he had been isolated?

“I have to leave for a while,” he groaned,” to discuss this deal with Mr. Cross. My den is not to be entered while I’m gone.” He gave Donna a kiss before heading upstairs to shower and clean up and pack for his trip.

Two days later his daughter Beth entered the den. She had been away at college when her father left, working on a composition for her writing class. She was often considered a reflection of Gunther, and for good reason. She had a remarkable talent for writing, and was pursuing a major in journalism.

Since she hadn’t been home when Mr. Cross had called, and had missed her father’s sudden departure, Beth wasn’t aware that the den was off limits. Upon returning, she went inside hoping that she could apologize and cheer her father up.
But he wasn’t there.

The den was dark and empty, but still had the faint aroma of Gunther’s signature Old Spice cologne. Beth closed the door, turned on the old candelabra-shaped desk lamp, and sat down in the black leather armchair in the corner of the room. With a sigh, she looked around at the walls, which were papered with rejection letters and photocopies of checks for published pieces.

Beth felt a slight chill in the air here, which was odd because this was the only room in the house without air conditioning. She hadn’t even turned on the fan.

She noticed some crumpled paper hanging over the edge of the wastebasket and reached down to pick it up. It was a hand-written copy of a scene from Gunther’s Trevor tale, a scene that apparently had been taken out. As she read, it was clear why the scene was purged from the story.

Trevor felt a wave of relief now that Erica was dead, not only because the bitch had it coming to her, but because it was the will of his creator, lord Oz.

The expunged scene went on to describe how Trevor came to learn of Oz, who Beth recognized right away as her father. He had glorified himself as a god, praising his creation of the story world and its people as a divine act.

Beth had read enough. As an aspiring writer herself, she hated to see her father’s misconception of his role as a storyteller. She crumpled the paper again and threw it away, and left the room with a disgusted feeling in her stomach.

Later that night, Donna noticed the light on behind the closed door to the den. Beth hadn’t turned it off when she left, but no one had seen the light creeping out of the crack below the door while there was still daylight. Perhaps Gunther had returned while she was at work, and hadn’t greeted her yet.

She opened the door. “Oz, are you there?” But the room was empty.

Not knowing that Beth had been there earlier, Donna scanned the room, and also found the crumpled deletion to the story. It filled her with just as much shock as it had to Beth, if not more. She tore up the paper over the wastebasket and went straight to the computer, suddenly curious as to what else he had done.

Among the MP3 files and photos of celebrities, there wasn’t much saved on Gunther’s hard drive. Most of his manuscripts had been saved on floppy disks that he seemed to guard with his life. There was, though, a file named “journal” that was saved in a hidden directory somewhere on the hard drive, one she had found by accident.

The feeling is intense. I have the power to make and unmake at will. Never before have I been this in control of anything in my life. If I don’t like a place or a person, I can just eliminate them from the story, as if they never existed. Or I can create someone new in my ideal image. I’m immortal.

Trevor is the perfect manifestation of me. He is everything I am and want to be. And yet he still worships me, as I am his creator, and he does my every command. Through him, I can live my deepest fantasies.

Reading the journal, Donna knew that it was no longer her husband talking. The man she loved, who would inspire and entertain her and her children with a story, just for the pleasure of telling it, had turned into someone very, very sick.

Her skin sticking to the black leather of the armchair, Donna leaned back in the seat, tears coming to her eyes. She heard the voice of Mr. Cross in her head, and she suspected the man had something to do with the changes in Gunther.

Worrying about Mr. Cross would have to wait. Donna began rummaging through cabinets and drawers, searching for the disks with the manuscripts. Laura had come down and joined in the search, even though she didn’t know why. Her mother, with a feigned smile, explained that she had some editing that had to be done. With a bubbly “okay,” Laura continued looking.

“Mom, where’s Daddy been? I miss him,” asked Laura as she looked through an old chest of items Gunther had saved for inspiration: statues, coins, old books and black and white photographs of people he didn’t even know.

Donna sighed. “He’s on a business trip for his book. He’ll be back soon.”

After an hour of searching, the stack of disks was found in the seat cushion of the armchair, along with checks that Gunther apparently had saved toward their cruise. A tear trickled down Donna’s cheek. Before she could wipe it away, Laura noticed it. “What’s wrong, Mom?” Laura asked with a frown.

“Nothing, sweetie. It’s okay. Now let me get to work on these.” Donna ushered her daughter out of the room with a kiss on the head and locked the door behind her.

One by one, Donna erased all the disks, purging Gunther’s files. She hated to do it, for it was her husband’s life’s work, but the only way to stop his madness was to get rid of what he had created and stop him from writing. He could always get his old job back, and they could still take the cruise together. All she needed now was for Gunther to come home.

As weeks passed, Donna’s worry escalated. She hadn't heard from Gunther since he left, and her calls to his cell phone went unanswered and unreturned. She filed a missing persons report with the police, and called the police station every day to see if anyone had heard anything, but no sign of Gunther was found. Beth and Laura were also starting to get worried. Beth spent as much time at home as she could, consoling her mom.

Donna frantically waited by the phone whenever she could, and appointed the task to Laura when she had to go out. The phone did ring, though, on a Wednesday evening when she and Beth had gone McDonald’s to pick up dinner. Laura was in her room at the time, loudly blaring her music as usual, and didn’t hear the phone ring or the message left by the caller on the answering machine.

Despite her disappointment, Donna was ecstatic to see the message light blinking on her answering machine when they got home. But instead of her husband or the police, it was Mr. Cross who had called. He left a strange message on the answering machine. “Look for my book,” was the only thing he said.


Something wasn’t right. Both Donna and Beth knew that books didn’t come out so soon. It was time they found out more about this Mr. Cross.

Beth went to the local bookstore to look up the name “Cross” among agents, authors, publishers, and anyone else in the literary market. While she was there, she noticed a book on the new releases section in the front of the store that caught her eye. It was written by a J.C. Cross, and was simply titled “The Writer.” The author could just possibly have been the mysterious Mr. Cross of the phone calls, so she bought herself a copy. She had also noticed that her mother was getting more frantic lately, as day after day passed with no word from her father, so reading the book might at the very least divert her temporarily.

When Donna started reading the book, she was not impressed. The characters in the book were nameless, referred to as ‘The Man’ or ‘The Woman’ or similar descriptive titles, and the plot didn’t immediately grab her interest. However, there was something familiar about those nameless characters, though Donna couldn’t determine what it was. If not for that, she wouldn’t have had any interest in the book at all so far.

Donna nestled into her bed, staring over at the empty half next to her. It was the eighth week since Gunther had left to meet J.C. Cross. Whether he was crazy or not, she did miss him, and wished he would return home soon.

She sighed and returned to her page in the book. And suddenly, the story was beginning to mimic how she and Gunther had met. The meeting took place in the same high school, and the two main characters, she could see now, were starting to resemble her and her husband. ‘The Man’ was on the school’s newspaper staff, and ‘The Woman’ was the head of the art division of the paper, just as with her and Gunther.

From that night on, Donna became increasingly interested, and immersed herself in the book. She would read it during slow periods at work, traffic jams and, most often, at night after going to bed.

Cross’ depiction of them and their friends and family was astounding. Every detail was so lifelike, and he seemed to know everything about everyone. How had he obtained such knowledge? Did Gunther spill everything while he was away? It was beyond her.

The book was drawing near its end, and the tale of how Gunther played God had begun. In Cross’ story, ‘The Man’ left home to achieve his dream of publishing his book, just as he had in real life.

He handed the manuscript to his agent, satisfied with what he had just created. “It’s my greatest work. All will now hail me as a god.” His book deal was complete, and it was time to return home.

The agent only shook his head and laughed with a slightly disappointed look on his face. “You are not a god. There is only one Creator, and I was sent by Him. The book deal you have just signed is—let us say,—a very, very long term one, and you get more than you bargained for.” Opening the book, the agent showed his client that the last twenty pages were blank.

Suddenly, The Man felt more strongly than ever that he was a part of his own story. He looked around and suddenly saw not the agent’s office but the flimsy, poorly described world of his own creation. And he knew that this was where he would remain. Forever.

Donna thumbed hurriedly through the last twenty pages of the book. They were blank. Suddenly she screamed and then began to cry softly.