To Sell Yourself or to Be True to Yourself?

“You need to write what sells,” a lady tells me. “I would rather write what’s in my heart,” I reply. “You’ll never be successful if you do that,” she adds. My blood boils. It was such a lovely conversation up until now. “Whether my book sells or not isn’t up for you to decide or me to decide, but for the readers” I say a bit more testily than I mean to. The conversation ends on an awkward note.

There are a lot of issues that get on my nerves, sometimes little ones. Telling authors what they should write and then threatening them that they won’t be successful if they don’t follow this formula is one such pet peeve of mine. It’s not that I don’t think the woman was right in some aspects, or many aspects for that matter. There certainly are bestsellers out there that the reading audience devours. But just because a book is beloved today, doesn’t mean that it is destined to go down in history as a classic. The reading public is fickle, with loyalties that can change as the years pass by.

I’m sure most of my readers are familiar with Herman Melville and his literary masterpiece Moby Dick. Melville has been lauded as the Shakespeare of America, a title well deserved. His work is very poetic, comical, tragic, and explores the human soul, much like William Shakespeare did with his plays. But though praised in literary circles and academia now, there was a time in which Melville was an obscure author. Moby Dick was a commercial flop when it was published in 1851. If Melville dreamed of fame, it would have to wait until after he died, in which his work would be discovered in the 20th century.


The Disowned by Bulwere-Lytton

The opposite of Melville would be Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Don’t know who he is? You’re in good company. He has been largely forgotten. Yet you probably use his phrases more often than you think. Phrases such as “the pen is mightier than the sword,” and the “pursuit of the almighty dollar,” as well as the infamous “it was a dark and stormy night,” all come from him. While he is virtually unknown today, or mocked for that matter, he was a bestselling author in the 19th century, beloved by the reading public.

Herman Melville and Edward Bulwere-Lytton are but two examples of how popularity when it comes to a writer and their books can change. It’s possible to write a story that the audience wants, only for it to sink into the quicksand of obscurity in the future. Likewise, it’s possible to write a book that fails to sell, only for it grow to critical acclaim as the years or the centuries pass by. Still, it’s only fair to mention that some books may be popular when they were written and still be classics now while some books may always be unknown. One just can’t tell.

Certainly many of the editors who turned down the works of J.K. Rowling and Dr. Seuss probably didn’t see their work as becoming popular or profitable. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone would be rejected twelve times. Dr. Seuss’s first book, To Think That I Saw it on Mullberry Street, would be rejected twenty-seven times. But Harry Potter has become a cultural phenomenon that has spawned movies, spin-offs, and a theme park. The works of Dr. Seuss are still resonating with children today, having turned into a yardstick in which all children’s literature is measured in terms of quality.

Now, I’m not naive to think that my writing is going to become classic literature, beloved by millions. But I’m not so pessimistic to think that it can’t happen either. I acknowledge that writing in the hopes that others love your work is a gamble. There’s a chance that my work will never be heavily successful. But what if I were to write “what people want,” only to produce a flop? I would much rather take that gamble and write what I want to write about, to put down on paper what is in my heart and soul. Shakespeare said “to thine own self be true.” I would rather be true to myself, regardless of where it takes me.



Cover of 1980s re-release of “Moby Dick,” published by Readers Digest. A once obscure book, now a classic.



Is My Writing any Good? A Writer’s Concerns

Is my writing any good? It’s a valid question asked by most writers, particularly when one wants to publish their work and share it with the world. I know that I have asked this many times. Most of us like to think that we have drunk deeply from the mead of Kvasir, that mead in Norse myths that gave people the gift of poetry. But are we poets or are we fools? Do we write as eloquently and as thoughtfully as Shakespeare? Do we write as passionate as Stephen King? Do we compose stories as mythical and poetic as Tolkien or as complex and scientific as Asimov? Can we write engaging characters, who grow on us, like J.K. Rowling, Charles Dickens, or Robin Hobbe can? Do our words present the world in a new light? Are they doorways into fantasy worlds? Or do our words lie dead on the sheets of dead trees they were printed on? All of the aforementioned are particularly important when one wants to know if the story is good enough as is or if it needs to be rewritten or just plain scraped. So, how does one know if a short story or novel one is writing has potential or if it’s a flop? Here are some pointers that have greatly helped me out.

Have numerous friends and family read it.
Okay. I know what some of you long time readers of my blog are thinking. Didn’t I write a post a year ago in which I bemoaned the fact that I didn’t feel supported enough by my friends and family who never ended up reading my writing? True. I did state as much. However, with a little bit of luck, you will always have a few friends and family who will read your work and offer feedback. Of course, what if friends and family don’t want to hurt your feelings by being honest? This brings up the next point.

Have strangers read your work.
Strangers tend to be more honest and partial when reading a manuscript. While it’s not always easy to get feedback from strangers, there are some good sites to receive potential feedback. I have had some luck on On Booksie you can post your poetry, short stories, and chapters of novels. Likewise, blog sites such as WordPress or Blogger can be a great platform for finding feedback, if the writer works hard on building up an audience. One way to do so is to find other blogs to leave comments on, thus getting yourself known about. Aside from the online option, face to face can be extremely beneficial. Writers groups who meet in public tend to be brutally honest. In this case, a thick skin is needed as your writing will be picked apart piece by piece in public. It’s also important to find a writing group that can be supportive of you.

Some things to consider.
Every writer has their own style that won’t resonate with everyone  but will resonate with others. This is an important fact to keep in mind when having your writing critiqued. This is a rule I go by, if numerous friends and strangers like my writing, but only one or a few don’t, then I go by what the majority feels. If the majority says my story needs work, then I listen to the majority.   For instance, I had a children’t book I was working on, and the majority of my readers said “this needs work,” as well as “you really need to read more children’s books.” I was thankful and took their advice and rewrote it. On the other hand, when I wrote a short fantasy story, I had many people, strangers included, praise it, but I had one friend tear into it, saying everything wrong with it. I disagreed with much of what he had to say, and since the majority liked it, I figured it was just a different taste on his part. To elucidate, some people will see Herman Melville’s work as the William Shakespeare of America, whereas others will find it long-winded and preachy. Some will see Tolkien as poetic and otherworldly, while some will see his characters as flat and wooden and his descriptions tedious. Some will see the writing of Mark Twain as witty social satire that withstands the test of time, others will find him to be obnoxious and a boor. Some may find an author’s writing too flowery, being overloaded with purple prose, while some will see it as a rich feast for the mind to dine on. Some will see another author’s writing as dull and dry, lacking emotion and passion, while others will find it crisp and straight to the point. In short, you can’t please everyone.

In closing.
It’s not easy being a writer, I can attest. Like my fellow writers, I want to create stories and novels that inspire people today and for future generations. It’s easy to put blinders on, in which we are so enamored with our work that we don’t see the glaring flaws in it. On the other end of the spectrum it’s easy to take criticism so personally that we don’t stop and ask if the reader makes a valid point or if it’s only the reader’s personal preference and opinion. Hopefully these steps I’ve shared, though far from being perfect, will give a little bit of help to the struggling writers out there.

Cold Shades Ch 1

I worry about the future. I see all the increase in technology and it scares me. Many things that I feared when I had the idea for writing this book are already now being invented. I feel an urgency now to write this book and get it out there. So, here is the first chapter of my dystopian novel Cold Shades. There will be some spelling, punctuation, and other grammatical errors, seeing as I have not sent this into my editor yet, but I hope you find the story thought-provoking anyway. Note: I recommend this story for ages 18 and up due to some of the harsh adult subject matter.

Rebecca Brown, simply known as Becca, rarely left her home. There was no need to. All of the necessities of life were supplied right at her fingertips, her home providing her with everything she needed. Even her work could be done at home.  

               At the moment, Becca was typing on her computer screen, but not in the archaic manner with her fingers. Instead, the computer monitor, which was almost paper thin, and attached to the wall, was reading the words she was thinking from a chip imbedded in her brain. Fresh words scrolled across the screen, as fast as she could think them. If she made an error, needing to delete something, all she had to do was clench her fist and say, “delete.” In this case, she told the program to “delete the third paragraph.” She had been composing an email to an irate customer in too much anger, and the third paragraph had been particularly volatile. There would be much deleting ahead.

               It was hard to work with idiots day in and day out, and that was putting it lightly. It was overwhelming.

               Her stomach grumbled, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it needed nourishment. A break was in order.

                “Restaurants,” Becca said, causing the computer to project a list of local eateries. “Chinese,” she continued, realizing she hadn’t had one of her favorite meals in a while; sweet and sour pork. The computer narrowed her choices solely to those catering in Chinese food. “Mrs. Yang’s” she said. Projecting straight out of the computer screen and right into her living room was a Chinese waitress, wearing a long red dress of silk, her black hair curled into a bun. Though only an illusion, the likeness of a real person was impeccable.

Holograms over the years had made such leaps and bounds that most people applauded the technological advancements as modern marvels. And yet, they were a different type of hologram than the old images which were formed by beams of light making 3D images. These holograms were extra lifelike. For such holograms may as well not have been called such. The very illusions Becca saw before here were produced from the chip in her head, causing her brain and her eyes to visualize it all. It’s not to say that the paper thin computer upon her wall didn’t help with producing such images. The chip within Becca’s brain, which was a small computer in and of itself, sent a signal to the computer upon the wall, and thus both computers collaborated together to form said illusion.

As things were, not everyone was pleased with such technology. Some hated it. But though there were a few Socrates’ and Platos’ still in the world who didn’t approve of it, they harping on the analogy of the cave with its shadows and illusions, such luddites had always been a rare breed.         

“Welcome to Mrs. Yang’s,” the waitress said, “a house of the finest Chinese cuisine to satisfy you and your families’ appetites. Would you like to try our special today?”

               “What’s today’s special?” asked Becca.

               “Today’s special is twice-cooked pork, fried-cheese wontons, and three egg rolls, plus a drink, all for six-ninety five,” said the waitress as a perfect 3D image of the food appeared before her.

               Tempting price, but Becca didn’t care for twice-cooked pork. “No,” she said.

               “Would you like to see our menu?”


               “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

Illusions of smorgasboards of delicious foods, followed by descriptions of each one, popped up into her living room in crystal clear precision, as though they could be grabbed. Such realism further satiated her hunger. Becca browsed, not bothering to say another word to the waitress until she ordered. It would be pointless to do so anyway, as the waitress, being a recorded person, could only respond to certain words and phrases. It was a normal tactic done by all restaurant management; video record a person, then program that image and voice into the computer, in which they would respond to certain phrases and words. There was no use asking how she was doing. She wasn’t fine, sad, angry, or flustered; she just was as is. It would be pointless telling her that her red dress laced with etchings of golden dragons was appreciated. It wouldn’t affect her in any way. She was only the shell of the waitress recorded for customers to see, not the actual person.

               After looking over it all, the appetizers, entrees, dinners, and side dishes, Becca was still confident about her previous decision. “I would like the sweet and sour pork with a side of ham fried rice,” said Becca.

               “Anything to drink?”


               “Will that be all?”


               “Your total comes to seven twenty-five,” said the waitress. “Are you ready for us to scan your chip?”

               “Go for it!” Becca assented.

               A laser reader came out from her computer, scanning the chip implanted in her brain. “Ms. Rebecca Brown, age thirty-one, of 4213 Willington Dr. Las Angeles, California,” said the waitress. “Is this correct?”

               “Yes,” said Rebecca.

               “Is there anything else?” asked the hologram waitress.


               “Thank you for ordering from Mrs. Yangs,” the image said with a bow. “Your food will be arriving shortly.”

               Becca didn’t immediately return to work, opting to sprawl across her couch instead. Besides, she couldn’t concentrate anyway, being as hungry as she was. She was sure that it was her hunger that was causing her to be short with the customer.

                As she waited for her food, she thought of how much of a nuisance it was ordering out. Sure, it was convenient, but it came with a price, and that price was more than money. She was certain that she would be dreaming of Mrs. Yang’s off and on, just as she dreamed about some of her other favorite restaurants. It wasn’t uncommon for these companies to hack into the chip when one was asleep to send images into it, causing customers to dream. It was the most effective form of advertising ever.

               Originally, there had been laws passed against this, as the courts had deemed it as an infringement upon peoples’ privacy, but the ruling didn’t hold up long. Corporations made the argument that they weren’t actually ‘prying into peoples’ thoughts,’ but rather were ‘only broadcasting their products.’ While this had still seemed invasive, in the end money and corporate interests won out against lawmakers and legislatures against it. Bribery was a surefire way to get politicians on the side of the corporations.

               Besides, it wasn’t like many people cared about the advertisements in their sleep anyway. Society was bombarded by advertisements on a daily basis. At this very moment, Becca was wearing a t-shirt that screened images of the latest products on it, from a very narrow and flexible computerized screen that picked up satellite signals. Even the legging of her pants had a thin vertical screen running down them, with ever-changing words advertising the newest game released or the latest movie out. This had cut down greatly on the price of clothing, making it very inexpensive. As for the advertisements transferred as dreams into peoples’ sleep, most corporations were smart enough to know not to overdo it. Usually the dreams were subtle, sometimes to the point that people could hardly remember them; only the subliminal message remained.

               Growing tired of just lounging upon her couch, Becca decided to experience a movie from her computer. Televisions were a thing of the past, computers having completely taken over, just as they had with everything else. And like everything else, the computer program for the movie worked to send a signal to her chip, enabling her to be engulfed in the movie.

               Cars in a high speed chased rushed past her, the sounds of bullets blazing by and tires burning rubber assaulting her ears. Sometimes she found herself enveloped in a fiery explosion, to see the hero walk out of it towards her, so life-like that she felt she could reach out and touch him. Or she was soaring with a jet above the snowy Swiss Alps, her favorite scene as it showed a time before they were almost all covered in housing developments.

               Everything was so-lifelike while experiencing a movie that one had to not get carried away. Becca remembered back to when she was experiencing one of her favorite films, a movie about brave adventurers looking for hidden treasure in an ancient, crumbling temple. She had grown so excited during the scenes in which the travelers were jumping from one crumbling platform to another over a chasm that she tried to jump with them, only to break her right leg on her table. Needless to say, she had spent the rest of the day in the hospital, being attended to by robotic nurses. Becca learned to sit still during a movie.  

               ‘Your food is here,’ said a pleasant computer automated voice over her speaker. Becca ordered the film to shut down, plunging her back into her boring living room.

At her door was a Delivery Bot. The robot was constructed simplistic enough, being built more like a car, and able to hold numerous orders in its interior, which was always heated by a heat lamp. Like an average car, it hovered. A large metal neck jutted out from the front, ending in what looked like a pair of oversized binoculars for vision. It held a bag of food in one metallic hand, while the other hand was a card scanner, greedily outstretched, as hungry for the payment as Becca was for the food. Becca quickly paid him. No chit-chat, no time wasted. Just paying the machine and getting her food.

 As the Delivery Bot flew off, Becca thought back to the history books she read, which told of a time that human delivery had caused too many problems with drivers because of their irresponsibility or their demanding of raises. Robots were the logical answer to the problem. And not just for restaurants, but for grocery stores too. Robots now delivered everything from fresh eggs, meats, and fish, to cereal and bread, to cleaners and soaps and so forth, meaning one never had to leave their home to go to go the grocery store either.

               Though Becca had no need to go outside, she still liked to. While it was true that many people chose to stay inside, living in a state of eternal hibernation, she craved the fresh air. She decided that she would end her work day early and let the disgruntled customer wait, finish up her meal, take a break from her movie, and go outside.

She did just that.

Outside she was greeted by houses spread out for miles in all directions, a sea of concrete and plaster. In-between blocks of neighborhoods, one might come across a store or a restaurant, here and there. There were, of course, office buildings, but they were more conglomerated downtown and there was only a few of them. Still, though very few people worked white collar jobs anymore, the few office buildings downtown were islands of steel and spires sticking out of the ocean of plaster homes.

Soaring in the sky above Becca were a couple of cars. She had very mixed feeling about cars. Her boyfriend had died in one. Fairly frequently, the news reported terrible car wrecks. One that stuck out in her memory most vividly was of a drunk driver, who had dismantled the automated flying program, and who came plummeting down into the living room of a family. The parents and the children were all killed, being squashed under the car. One would have thought that since cars were computer operated, being self-driven, that car wrecks would have been a tragedy consigned to the annals of history. But this was not the case. For starters there were many hackers who got a sick thrill out of hacking into someone’s car terminal and rerouting the designated safe route into a building or into a skyway with cars flying in the opposite direction. It didn’t seem to matter how many security programs were newly put in place, as hackers loved the challenge of finding ways around them. Even if someone’s personal car was up to date in terms of hacking defense it still couldn’t always save them from a hacker who liked the challenge of cracking the code. Still, like the drunk driver who had killed the family, there were people who still wanted to fly cars themselves, abhorring the idea of a computer taking away the fun. So, they would find ways, if smart enough, or hire someone who had the technical skills in disabling the automated flight program. In short, Pandora’s Box had been opened, and not solely by flying cars, but by the advent of putting computers into cars even before they could fly.  

Becca continued on her walk, choosing not to focus on the macabre scenario. It made her think too much of her deceased boyfriend.

Instead she kept her eyes open for interesting people she could possibly meet. Though not many people were out and about, there were certainly a few.

One fine specimen caught Becca’s eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered. He wore a polo shirt, and a pair of khakis. Upon his shirt an advertisement was ending for a new cereal brand, making way for an ad about the newest in automated indoor sprinkling systems to put out house fires. She would have loved to have stared at his firm, strong legs, but the ad running down his khakis for a latest cell-phone update that could be installed in the computer chip was too distracting. It was best jut to focus on his face. He flashed her a smile that looked as though it could come off the cover of a romance novel.

“Hello there,” said Becca.

“Hello,” reciprocated the handsome man. “Where do you come from?”

Becca shrugged. “Just this neighborhood, I’m afraid. Nothing exciting, I know.”

“Nothing exciting? I can hardly believe that. What’s your name?”

“My name is Rebecca Brown,” she said, extending her hand for him to shake. “But just call me Becca.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Becca,” said the man, shaking her hand. “I’m Theodore Green. Kind of a dorky name, I know.”

“Not at all. It sounds strong, masculine.”

“That’s very kind of you. Anyway, you can call me Ted.”

“Okay, Ted,” Becca nodded. “Are you from around these parts?”  

Ted shook his head. “No. I live on the other end of town. But you know, getting restless and all, I decided I’d take a scenic drive.”

“Scenic!” exclaimed Becca in disbelief. “Why? I didn’t think the neighborhood south of here looked much different than this one. Also, why even take a walk here when you can just take one on your end?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure of what you’re getting at,” said Ted.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It seems kind of weird, but whatever.”

“Say, do you like cars?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Not really. My boyfriend was killed in one.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Ted. “I hope I didn’t dredge up any painful memories.”

“It’s okay,” said Becca. “I’d like to take a look at your car anyway,” she lied. Nonetheless two factors prompted the lie, her feelings of infatuation, and it being rude to turn down someone being friendly.

Besides, she was lonely, not having gone on a date for quite some time. She needed to get out more, to dance, to feel the embrace of the opposite sex. She had been working far too hard not to indulge in some healthy human interaction. Customers sending angry emails, in which she reciprocated twice as angrily, was not good bonding with her fellow man.

“Right on!” said Ted. “Follow me.” Becca did so, without thinking of the potential consequences of blindly following a stranger. Her parents had warned her, ever since she was a child, of the dangers of just trusting anybody. It was one of the reasons they had enrolled her in virtual classes, so as not to have to deal with bully and school shootings. In this case, her parents would certainly warn her against following a stranger to his car. And Ted was strange, strange in his mannerisms, and with the way he answered questions.

               It only took a minute to come to Ted’s pride and glory, an Orange Bolt 3000. It was sleek and beautiful. Its coloring was that of a sunset, a bright orange, slowly fading to a purple, with a yellow stripe running across the middle of it. It was modeled after the old convertibles in that it lacked a roof.

               “Would you like to hop in for a drive?” Ted opened the door and wore an expression bespeaking of himself as the perfect gentlemen. “We can go to your place or mine. Maybe we could even get a beer, chill out, watch a movie?”

               “Gee, thanks for the invite,” said Becca. “But, I’m not ready for that yet. I mean, let’s get real for a sec. I just met you.”

               “I’m sorry, but is there a problem with the car?” asked Ted.

               Problem with the car? Becca couldn’t believe her ears. She hadn’t said a thing about the car. Still, he was kind of cute, and she was lonely. “How about we meet up some time,” she ventured, not wanting to ruin an opportunity to jump back into the dating pool.

               “That’d be great! What do you like to do?”

               “Let’s go to a bar and get plastered,” she said, staring at an advertisement for her favorite beer playing across his shirt. “We could go to a bar and clubbing.”  

               “Awesome,” said Ted, excitedly. “I’m down for whatever. Maybe I can pick you up in my car.”

               “Cool, let’s do it! But I’ll meet you there. I’m not ready to ride with you yet. No offense, but you are a stranger.”

               “Can I get your number?”

               Becca reluctantly gave it, and in turn he gave her his, the small chip in her head saving it. Now she noticed that the screen on Ted’s polo was primarily showing off different cars. They made a little more chit-chat before Ted drove off.

Overall, Becca had found the conversation to be peculiar, and she was a little annoyed that it often came back to his car. Before leaving he had at least talked about his car for five minutes, boasting about how wonderful it was. Yet, he was kind enough, and she didn’t sense any danger from him.

               An older man, who happened to be passing by, shot Becca an inquisitive glance and said, “You do know that he is nothing than a walking advertisement, don’t you?”

                “Aren’t we all?” she chuckled seeing an ad playing on the old man’s cap for a new virtual game.

               “No. I mean it’s more than that,” the man said.  

Becca shrugged. Maybe she didn’t get it, but she didn’t care. She had been trying so hard to forget about her last boyfriend that she would take the quirks of a new one, even if those quirks were talking about cars. Besides, it’d be a lie to say that she didn’t have her own interests, such as movies and books, which could make her quirky. Who was she to judge someone for loving cars?  She only hoped that if something were to develop between the two of them that he would broaden his horizons.

               Becca could have gotten lost in her reverie of finding romance until she remembered that today was the day that she had to visit her deadbeat brother. She didn’t relish this. But she had made a promise to be his wet nurse and she was stuck with her decision. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that he lived within walking distance and that she could keep the visit brief.

               Walking briskly, Becca found herself there in no less than five minutes. A laser came down from the front porch, scanning her chip. Only after it had obtained and analyzed all the data did it grant her entrance.

               She found her brother laying sprawled out on the couch, a slug of a man, slowly but steadily drowning under waves of his own fat.

               “I don’t suppose you brought me something to eat?” he asked.

               How typical! Of course that would be the first question out of his voracious vacuum of a mouth.

               “You know, if you hadn’t of lied on the questioner, you probably wouldn’t be immobilized here on your fat ass,” Becca said without worrying the least bit about candor.  

               “Ah, cut me some slack,” her brother protested. “You know that I tried to sound convincing.”

               “Harold,” cried out Becca in exasperation, “you told the computer that you had prior work experience as a manager. How the hell did you think that would go over?”

               “I wasn’t thinking” –

               “So what else is new?” Becca cut him off. “Harold, even if they didn’t verify through your work history and past employers, the lie detector chip is more than enough to tell them that you are full of shit. A quick scan from a computer monitors your heart rate, your brain waves, just about everything that could give you away. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. You should be smart enough to know this.”

               “Well, I’m not, so excuse me,” shouted Harold. “I’ve never been as smart as you. Never as brilliant.”

               “Harold. You have genius level abilities in the study of history and linguistics. You have no right to call yourself stupid. In your case it’s not about brilliance, it’s just about common sense.”

               “Yeah, well I guess I lack that.”

               Becca was flustered. Why did this have to be so hard? She and Harold had always clashed. This was nothing new. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Most problems he faced in life he had brought upon himself, but society didn’t make it any easier, not with computers in all.

               Computers had long ago taken over the interview process. It had started out simple enough, with many large companies using computers to do online applications. Now computers were advanced enough to conduct interviews. Computers were supposed to be so advanced in terms of hiring by ascertaining the honesty of the interviewee, and the interviewee’s skills and weaknesses. In theory it was supposed to be simple, but in reality it made life more difficult.

               No matter how smart the AI was, no matter what questions the computer could ask, no matter how capable it was of reading heart-rate and brain waves to analyze honesty, there was still room for a great margin of error.

               Harold had had the misfortune of being interviewed by a particularly hard computer program from a prestigious educational firm. He had wanted to be a museum curator, and had studied hard for many years at an expensive virtual university, paying out huge sums of money and appropriating a large debt in student loans, only to have it capitulate in a small apartment. The thread which had led to his career demise had slowly unwound into a tangle of mess after he had graduated. He had made the mistake of taking a year sabbatical before finding a job, in order to help out their sick mother. In retrospect, Harold should have just taken that opportunity to interview for the museum.

               But could have he in good conscious?

               Their mother had been being treated for cancer for over a year, and she had gradually been growing worse. Nothing the life-like android nurses could do could help her. There had been a couple of flesh and blood doctors there, but they had seldom visited her, except at brief intervals, having so many other things to attend to. Becca had visited her a few times a month when she could manage. If she had of known her mother’s condition was that bad, she would have visited her more. To this Becca still felt heavy guilt. It was Harold who had taken up the mantle of caring for their mother. It was he who had helped her improve for a little while. It didn’t last, but for a short time she was happier.

               However, her brother’s sacrifice had come with a price. The computerized interview had asked him if he had been engaged in any education or work in that one year gap. When he had told the computer that he was looking after his mother, the computer had only responded with, ‘I don’t understand. Have you been employed or enrolled in any schooling this past year?’ He should have said no. But he had known that doing so would have brought on the high probability of barring him from future interviews. So, panicking, he had lied, telling the computer that he had spent the last year enrolled as a supervisor for robotic tour guides at historic sites. It didn’t take long for the computer to read his brain waves and his heart-rate, finding that he was lying. Since then, Harold’s reputation had spread through other computer employment systems, effectively lowering his chances fifty-fold of landing a job.

               Now, her brother was living off of borrowed funds from their deceased parents, and from Becca herself. He could hardly pay the tuition costs back and he hardly had a sufficient amount for his own living conditions. It wouldn’t be long until Becca would have to take her brother in to live with her, seeing as the funds within his chip would soon be depleted.

               “I’m sure something will come up,” Becca lied.

               “Yeah, maybe if I can get some pills to take that change the heart rate and the brain-waves to fool the computer,” said Harold.

               “Those are illegal!”

               “Oh, I’d sell my own mother to afford pills to cheat the system,” he shrugged.

               “Not funny,” said Becca. She wanted to slap him for that remark. But she controlled herself by remembering that her brother never had much of a filter to begin with. Besides, despite that utterly tasteless joke over their dead mother, he had still been the one to watch over her, not she, thus getting himself into this predicament. “Harold,” she said in a softer tone, “I know it’s rough right now. But you’re bound to find something.”

               “Like what? Who in the hell would have me?”

               Becca was at a loss for words. Very few companies would hire Harold. “What can I do to help make your life easier?” she asked instead.

               “Well, you could buy me some of those cream filled cookies. You know the kind I like! I can then happily gorge myself on those. You can also buy me some packs of my favorite beer. I can use those to vomit out my sorrow.”

               “Damn it, Harold!” exclaimed Becca. “What good will that do?”

               “You’re one to talk, you and your pious, holier-than-thou attitude,” pointed out Harold, shaking a fat fist at her, without even standing up. “You at least have a job. I don’t have jack-shit! How dare you have the nerve lecturing me about how morally wrong slowly killing myself is! Well, society is slowly killing me a little bit each and every day. If I’m to die, at least let it be from drinking myself to death, or a heart attack brought on by too much sweets.”

               Becca blushed. He was right. She had no right to condemn him.

               “I’m sorry, Harold,” she whispered. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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