by la pianista irlandesa Based on "The Great Automatic Grammatizator" by Roald Dahl
I had been known for my writing for many years. A majority of my works were published in several magazines, and several of my novels were best-sellers. I reveled in crafting each of my stories as if I was painting the Mona Lisa, or sculpting David. I shaped them with great care and pride with the knowedge that what I was writing was unique, from my own head, and made with my meek human hands.
This was before the knock on my door.
I was just about to begin my daily marathon of clacking at my typewriter, when I noticed a fine car pull up my gravel driveway. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a 1940 Cadillac. A mixture of surprise, and (for some reason) panic overtook me. No one I knew owned a Cadillac; I hadn't published anything in quite some time; I had paid my taxes on time. I watched with suspicion from my bedroom window as a young man got out of the car and walked up the dirt pathway up to my tiny house.When I heard the rap on my door, my heart seemed to skip a few beats. Get a hold of yourself, Gwenna, I said to myself. Don't get yourself all riled up about some man you've never seen in your entire life. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The young man outside was dressed decently, his hair was a bit messy, but the most noticible thing about him was his persona. He held his head high, a person who knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and exactly how to get it. He seemed harmless enough, but part of me still didn't trust him.
He nodded to me. "Good day, ma'am. I'm Adolph Knipe, from the Literary Agency in town."
"I see," I replied coolly.
Unabashed, he continued. "I have a proposition for you." Hesitantly, I let him in. I led him to my small, sunlit kitchen and offered him tea, which hegraciously accepted.
As I heated the water, I saw him notice a copy of my most recent book on the table. "I read this just the other day," he said fondly.
"I'm sure you did, Mr. Knipe."
"One of your many best-sellers, isn't it?"
"It was published only a month ago, therefore not having the chance to be one yet," I replied frankly.
"Well, I believe that a novel of Victor Hugo's sold out in one day upon publication."
"That was Victor Hugo; besides, it seems that news about these sort of things travels around more slowly nowadays," I responded. "That trend seems to continue as we speak," I added, trying to emphasize that he was procrastinationg about the reason he was here. He still wasn't taking the hint. "Now, the reason you're here, Mr. Knipe?" I asked rather coldly.
"Ah, yes. I have a proposition for you," he repeated.
"It's not going to do me any good if I don't even know what it is," I replied.
Then he began to explain about the Great Automatic Grammatizator. It was a great machine that was almost like a word calculator; it took words from its huge memory, and assembed them into sentences, which were then spun into stories. A relatively new modification, he explained, was that it could create novels using several buttons, switches, stops, and pedals; almost like a cross between a car, a calculator, and a pipe organ. He told me how he had been a struggling writer, but concieved this idea to build a machine that could write in any style you wanted, to suit any publisher or magazine in the country.
"So, what your saying," I began, stupified, when he had finished his story, "is that you 've built a contraption that writes anything from a bitsy story to a giant novel?"
"Precisely," he answered, a small grin playing with the corners of his mouth. "Here would be the deal: we pay you to use your name on our work, and you promise never to write another word again," he continued, slowly pulling out a contract as he spoke.
I couldn't believe my ears. A machine that writes stories, and a contract to never write again, AND allow for your name to be put on something you had no part of? I had to see this for myself; I was suspicious, to say the least. "Would I be able to try it out?"
"Of course," he replied, somewhat convinced that I was interested.
The machine was housed in a huge brick building. He explained the process, and allowed me to run off a few stories and a novel. He was a bit surprised when I asked for other work that had been done on the thing.
"I only want to see what else this puppy can do," I said innocently. Reluctantly, he handed me a folder. "I'll read the manuscripts, and get back to you on the contract," I said finally, and leaving before Knipe could say otherwise.
I took my time reading "my work." I read it critically, as if it was someone else's work, which, technically, it was. It wasn't in my style, it wasn't my wording, it had nothing of mine in it whatsoever, even though it bore my name. How would I be able to live with this garbage bearing my name being sold? I read some of the other works by some other authors, many which I knew personally. But, in the writing, they seemed to be different people. How could they have agreed to do this?
The next week Knipe showed up at my door again. "Well? What did you think?" he asked cheerfully.
I merely shrugged in reply. "They were okay."
"Okay?" He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. "Just okay?"
"They weren't up to my standards. Why don't you come in so we can further discuss this?" I asked, allowing him into my kitchen once more."Yes, even though I had 'written' these pieces, they didn't seem like mine. As a matter of fact, I modeled the pile of junk you call a novel after my most recent novel; it was in no way, shape or form similar."
"Well, you can't expect the same thing twice if one was handwritten and the other machine written," Knipe said, trying to wave my comment away.
"Then what do you call writing something out by hand, then typing it on a typewriter? That's copying from hand to machine." I gave him a minute to comprehend this. "And, also," I continued, "the other pieces you gave me? I recognised many of the authors, and knew those personally. This work was nothing at all like their style." I paused a moment. "Would I be able to have any imput on what my name went on if I signed?"
Knipe tugged nervously at his collar. "Well, it's never come up before..."
"So, essentially, the answer's no?" He slowly shook his head. "How do you expect me to live with the thought that you're putting my good name on some junk I had nothing to do with?"
"Now see here, Ms. Sandon," he began defensively, "what if the writing was good?"
"How would I know, seeing as I would have no imput? It's almost as if I were to enroll you in some organization that you weren't familiar with, I committed some hanis crime, and said you did it."
Knipe was getting impatient. "Are you going to sign or not?"
I stood up so quickly my chair clattered loudly to the floor. "What kind of idiot do you take me for, Mr. Knipe? I don't suppose you've realized that I've been asking questions only about the negative aspects of your 'glorious' machine? I made it very clear that I am not satisfied with the quality of your product, and you're still asking me if I want to sign?!"
"Ms. Sandon," he said calmly, "I'm speaking to you, from one writer to another. I assure you, this will make the whole process easier."
"What process are you refering to, Mr. Knipe?
"We do the grunt work, and you reap the rewards."
"The rewards being what? The knowledge that what bears my name could be a potential embarassment?"
"No no, think about the real reason people write." I gave him a blank stare. "Money," he said simply, a hungry look in his eyes. "That's why anyone writes, correct?"
"Ah, see, that's the mane difference between us, Mr. Knipe," I responded, pointing a finger at his chest. "We have different standards. You 'write' for the cash; I write, as well as many others, for the sake of writing good quality literature, the money is only what keeps us alive to keep writing. Good quality anything can't be manufactured, don't try to deny it." I felt pretty triumphant after my little speech. Knipe, however, gave me a grave look.
"Very well," he said stiffly, "Since you won't easily comply, I have no choice but to place some restraints on you."
"You have 'no choice'? From a monetary standpoint? I'd never believe that you, of all people in this bloody country, have money issues."
"You'll have you're car taken and booted."
"This car doesn't exist."
"You'll be under house arrest."
"I have no immediate appointments."
"You'll have your telephone blocked."
"I've been neding a reason to use it less than I do."
"Your electricity will be cut."
"I've noticed my bill's been rather high lately; besides, I have a typewriter."
"Your food will be severely limited."
"I've been meaning to lose some weight." I felth fury rise in him. "Is that all you've got, Mr. Knipe?" I asked impishly. Knipe, his face beet-red, looked ready to throttle me. "Why, are you hot, Mr. Knipe? You look awfully red," I noted cheerfully. "But, you must be used to being hot because of where you're from."
"Where would that be, Ms. Sandon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
I gave him an impish smirk. "I think you know where I mean."
If such a thing was possible, Knipe's face got redder. "Go to ghenna," he hissed.
"Take that back!" I shouted, unaware that the kettle had been boiling over for the past three minutes.
"Not unless you sign."
"What, is this a 'get out of Hell free' contract now? Oh, but that would be an oxymoron; I'm sure you, as a writer, Mr. Knipe, are familiar with the device known as the oxymoron?" I could've sworn I saw steam coming from Knipe's ears; it gave me an odd satisfaction. Without another word, he stormed out the door.
The restraints that he had mentioned went into effect immediately. I was allowed to keep half of what food I had in the house, but the chain from my bike was torn out and the tires were slashed; the telephone and electrical cables were violently cut off; and, to add extra insult to my injury, a man took my 1925 typewriter to the top of the chimney and dropped it onto the flagstone walk below, where it shattered to pieces beyond repair. I was kept up all hours of the night. I took to writing in a form of shorthand I had learned in high school that looked like scribbles. When a few of the men guarding my house tried to take the papers I had written on, I had loudly proclaimed that they were exceedingly important. They let me keep them, unable to read it anyway, and they probably thought I had gone round the bend. I wrote of my semi-imprisonment, mostly. Then, about a week or so in, I got an idea. I begged for someone to go to Knipe and tell him I was reconsidering. Quickly, I packed a few of my possesions into three brown suitcases: my notebooks, my savings, a week's worth of clothes, a quilt of my grandmother's, a stack of letters and stationary, my favorite blue pen, and three keys from my broken typewriter: G, Q, and S; these were the initials of my name, Gwenna Quinn Sandon.
Two days after I had sent for Mr. Knipe, he pulled up to my house in his Cadillac. "Come round, have you?" he asked as he got out of the car, not even attempting to hide the look of triumph on his thin face. I nodded. He followed me to where the contract still sat on the kitchen table. My left hand twisted in my lap, I signed my name on the dotted line of the contract that stated that I would recieve some of the profits from some of the writing produced by the Adolph Knipe Literary Agency, and to never write another word under the name of Gwenna Quinn Sandon again as long as I lived. I set down my pen and looked up to Knipe; I thought he was going to explode from happiness.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, standing and shaking my hand viggerously. I nodded in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on my face.
This was before the knock on my door.
I was just about to begin my daily marathon of clacking at my typewriter, when I noticed a fine car pull up my gravel driveway. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a 1940 Cadillac. A mixture of surprise, and (for some reason) panic overtook me. No one I knew owned a Cadillac; I hadn't published anything in quite some time; I had paid my taxes on time. I watched with suspicion from my bedroom window as a young man got out of the car and walked up the dirt pathway up to my tiny house.When I heard the rap on my door, my heart seemed to skip a few beats. Get a hold of yourself, Gwenna, I said to myself. Don't get yourself all riled up about some man you've never seen in your entire life. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The young man outside was dressed decently, his hair was a bit messy, but the most noticible thing about him was his persona. He held his head high, a person who knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and exactly how to get it. He seemed harmless enough, but part of me still didn't trust him.
He nodded to me. "Good day, ma'am. I'm Adolph Knipe, from the Literary Agency in town."
"I see," I replied coolly.
Unabashed, he continued. "I have a proposition for you." Hesitantly, I let him in. I led him to my small, sunlit kitchen and offered him tea, which hegraciously accepted.
As I heated the water, I saw him notice a copy of my most recent book on the table. "I read this just the other day," he said fondly.
"I'm sure you did, Mr. Knipe."
"One of your many best-sellers, isn't it?"
"It was published only a month ago, therefore not having the chance to be one yet," I replied frankly.
"Well, I believe that a novel of Victor Hugo's sold out in one day upon publication."
"That was Victor Hugo; besides, it seems that news about these sort of things travels around more slowly nowadays," I responded. "That trend seems to continue as we speak," I added, trying to emphasize that he was procrastinationg about the reason he was here. He still wasn't taking the hint. "Now, the reason you're here, Mr. Knipe?" I asked rather coldly.
"Ah, yes. I have a proposition for you," he repeated.
"It's not going to do me any good if I don't even know what it is," I replied.
Then he began to explain about the Great Automatic Grammatizator. It was a great machine that was almost like a word calculator; it took words from its huge memory, and assembed them into sentences, which were then spun into stories. A relatively new modification, he explained, was that it could create novels using several buttons, switches, stops, and pedals; almost like a cross between a car, a calculator, and a pipe organ. He told me how he had been a struggling writer, but concieved this idea to build a machine that could write in any style you wanted, to suit any publisher or magazine in the country.
"So, what your saying," I began, stupified, when he had finished his story, "is that you 've built a contraption that writes anything from a bitsy story to a giant novel?"
"Precisely," he answered, a small grin playing with the corners of his mouth. "Here would be the deal: we pay you to use your name on our work, and you promise never to write another word again," he continued, slowly pulling out a contract as he spoke.
I couldn't believe my ears. A machine that writes stories, and a contract to never write again, AND allow for your name to be put on something you had no part of? I had to see this for myself; I was suspicious, to say the least. "Would I be able to try it out?"
"Of course," he replied, somewhat convinced that I was interested.
The machine was housed in a huge brick building. He explained the process, and allowed me to run off a few stories and a novel. He was a bit surprised when I asked for other work that had been done on the thing.
"I only want to see what else this puppy can do," I said innocently. Reluctantly, he handed me a folder. "I'll read the manuscripts, and get back to you on the contract," I said finally, and leaving before Knipe could say otherwise.
I took my time reading "my work." I read it critically, as if it was someone else's work, which, technically, it was. It wasn't in my style, it wasn't my wording, it had nothing of mine in it whatsoever, even though it bore my name. How would I be able to live with this garbage bearing my name being sold? I read some of the other works by some other authors, many which I knew personally. But, in the writing, they seemed to be different people. How could they have agreed to do this?
The next week Knipe showed up at my door again. "Well? What did you think?" he asked cheerfully.
I merely shrugged in reply. "They were okay."
"Okay?" He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. "Just okay?"
"They weren't up to my standards. Why don't you come in so we can further discuss this?" I asked, allowing him into my kitchen once more."Yes, even though I had 'written' these pieces, they didn't seem like mine. As a matter of fact, I modeled the pile of junk you call a novel after my most recent novel; it was in no way, shape or form similar."
"Well, you can't expect the same thing twice if one was handwritten and the other machine written," Knipe said, trying to wave my comment away.
"Then what do you call writing something out by hand, then typing it on a typewriter? That's copying from hand to machine." I gave him a minute to comprehend this. "And, also," I continued, "the other pieces you gave me? I recognised many of the authors, and knew those personally. This work was nothing at all like their style." I paused a moment. "Would I be able to have any imput on what my name went on if I signed?"
Knipe tugged nervously at his collar. "Well, it's never come up before..."
"So, essentially, the answer's no?" He slowly shook his head. "How do you expect me to live with the thought that you're putting my good name on some junk I had nothing to do with?"
"Now see here, Ms. Sandon," he began defensively, "what if the writing was good?"
"How would I know, seeing as I would have no imput? It's almost as if I were to enroll you in some organization that you weren't familiar with, I committed some hanis crime, and said you did it."
Knipe was getting impatient. "Are you going to sign or not?"
I stood up so quickly my chair clattered loudly to the floor. "What kind of idiot do you take me for, Mr. Knipe? I don't suppose you've realized that I've been asking questions only about the negative aspects of your 'glorious' machine? I made it very clear that I am not satisfied with the quality of your product, and you're still asking me if I want to sign?!"
"Ms. Sandon," he said calmly, "I'm speaking to you, from one writer to another. I assure you, this will make the whole process easier."
"What process are you refering to, Mr. Knipe?
"We do the grunt work, and you reap the rewards."
"The rewards being what? The knowledge that what bears my name could be a potential embarassment?"
"No no, think about the real reason people write." I gave him a blank stare. "Money," he said simply, a hungry look in his eyes. "That's why anyone writes, correct?"
"Ah, see, that's the mane difference between us, Mr. Knipe," I responded, pointing a finger at his chest. "We have different standards. You 'write' for the cash; I write, as well as many others, for the sake of writing good quality literature, the money is only what keeps us alive to keep writing. Good quality anything can't be manufactured, don't try to deny it." I felt pretty triumphant after my little speech. Knipe, however, gave me a grave look.
"Very well," he said stiffly, "Since you won't easily comply, I have no choice but to place some restraints on you."
"You have 'no choice'? From a monetary standpoint? I'd never believe that you, of all people in this bloody country, have money issues."
"You'll have you're car taken and booted."
"This car doesn't exist."
"You'll be under house arrest."
"I have no immediate appointments."
"You'll have your telephone blocked."
"I've been neding a reason to use it less than I do."
"Your electricity will be cut."
"I've noticed my bill's been rather high lately; besides, I have a typewriter."
"Your food will be severely limited."
"I've been meaning to lose some weight." I felth fury rise in him. "Is that all you've got, Mr. Knipe?" I asked impishly. Knipe, his face beet-red, looked ready to throttle me. "Why, are you hot, Mr. Knipe? You look awfully red," I noted cheerfully. "But, you must be used to being hot because of where you're from."
"Where would that be, Ms. Sandon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
I gave him an impish smirk. "I think you know where I mean."
If such a thing was possible, Knipe's face got redder. "Go to ghenna," he hissed.
"Take that back!" I shouted, unaware that the kettle had been boiling over for the past three minutes.
"Not unless you sign."
"What, is this a 'get out of Hell free' contract now? Oh, but that would be an oxymoron; I'm sure you, as a writer, Mr. Knipe, are familiar with the device known as the oxymoron?" I could've sworn I saw steam coming from Knipe's ears; it gave me an odd satisfaction. Without another word, he stormed out the door.
The restraints that he had mentioned went into effect immediately. I was allowed to keep half of what food I had in the house, but the chain from my bike was torn out and the tires were slashed; the telephone and electrical cables were violently cut off; and, to add extra insult to my injury, a man took my 1925 typewriter to the top of the chimney and dropped it onto the flagstone walk below, where it shattered to pieces beyond repair. I was kept up all hours of the night. I took to writing in a form of shorthand I had learned in high school that looked like scribbles. When a few of the men guarding my house tried to take the papers I had written on, I had loudly proclaimed that they were exceedingly important. They let me keep them, unable to read it anyway, and they probably thought I had gone round the bend. I wrote of my semi-imprisonment, mostly. Then, about a week or so in, I got an idea. I begged for someone to go to Knipe and tell him I was reconsidering. Quickly, I packed a few of my possesions into three brown suitcases: my notebooks, my savings, a week's worth of clothes, a quilt of my grandmother's, a stack of letters and stationary, my favorite blue pen, and three keys from my broken typewriter: G, Q, and S; these were the initials of my name, Gwenna Quinn Sandon.
Two days after I had sent for Mr. Knipe, he pulled up to my house in his Cadillac. "Come round, have you?" he asked as he got out of the car, not even attempting to hide the look of triumph on his thin face. I nodded. He followed me to where the contract still sat on the kitchen table. My left hand twisted in my lap, I signed my name on the dotted line of the contract that stated that I would recieve some of the profits from some of the writing produced by the Adolph Knipe Literary Agency, and to never write another word under the name of Gwenna Quinn Sandon again as long as I lived. I set down my pen and looked up to Knipe; I thought he was going to explode from happiness.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, standing and shaking my hand viggerously. I nodded in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on my face.
You didn't think I was giving up THAT easily, did you?
I told Knipe to send the checks to the bank to be forwarded to me, as I was going away for some time. That very same day, I took the late train west, and took a ship further west to Ireland, and settled in Kilkenny. I still recieved my money from the Literary Agency under the name of Quenna Sandon, but I had changed my name to the name I write under today. I began writing in Kilkenny, starting life anew, but remembering who I really was.I clutched the pendant with the three typewriter key initials, as I decided to tell the secret of the Grammatizator and of Adolph Knipe, to tell those with true potential to be great on their own and resist this 'revolution.' I tell these stories slowly, and no suspicion has yet arisen; Knipe believes, from the word from one of her "old friends," that Gwenna Sandon died in a freak car accident.
But only those who truely pay attention really know the truth of the matter.
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