The year is the distant 2025. Time flows differently now, the rate of change making months feel like decades. Humanity barely remembers the early 2020s. Generative technologies become more pervasive. The last surviving creatives struggle to break through the barrage of regurgitated narratives.
But not all is lost. Discerning readers remain, although they are few, and they are hungry for new ideas. The creative process—a skill that is all but forgotten—is as valued as the final product.
I begin a three hour live-feed, staring motionless at my monitor. A frown furrows my brow, so deep, it has become my permanent feature. The dark circles and crows feet around my eyes are not filters or even signs of biological ageing, but the products of pain that dwells behind them. My face strains visibly from the effort.
Towards the end of the session, I type two paragraphs. I’ll probably need to rewrite them later. I pause the feed.
Viewers go wild in the comments.
“Did you see how she suffers?”
“They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“This is the mark of an authentic author.”
Finally, my capacity for misery is being rewarded. I sigh.
Gone are the days I begrudged this pain, wishing writing was quicker and easier. Today I know it is proof of my humanity—the one thing that sets me apart from the machines (besides my ability to select all the pictures with stairs, of course).
There’s talk of introducing “creative torment” as an Olympic sport in 2026. I’m thinking of trying out.
[end]
A. ZAYKOVA 