Essentially, a tool

“You cannot hope to be successful as a writer without one of these, nowadays.”

I stared at the little device with a disproportionate amount of diffidence. It didn’t look like much – a black box with rounded edges, a black screen, a few lines to mark where the buttons were. Just the latest slim-looking gadget funded by some tech billionaire. It reminded me of the early iPods, which was only indicative of how out-of-touch with modern trends I was getting.

“Tell me again what it does,” I blurted out, sipping from my cocktail glass that now mostly contained only melted ice reminiscent of sugar.

My colleague laughed. “The science behind it is above our pay grades, Mike.”

“Just the basics.”

He sighed like a consummated actor. “It dilates time around the user. It has to deal with relativistic applications of quantum-”

The expression on my face stopped him. Anything that started with relativistic couldn’t really end anywhere comprehensible.

“Ok, ok. But you got the first part, right? You take it, you press the button, and basically you enter a small bubble where time flows slower. Just for you. The world runs as usual. A couple of hours in, a couple of minutes out.”

“And it’s called TOD.”

“Time on Demand. Yea. Ground-breaking marketing choice if I ever saw one.”

I looked at the device again, then at my friend. Did he really believe I was so gullible?

“So let’s say this works. What has it to do with writing?”

He scoffed. “You really are old style, Mike. It’s basically extra time. You won’t have to choose between writing what pays and what you want. You can do both.”

He was either being serious or going all-in on the joke. It seemed just straight out of a lazy Doctor Who’s episode. Science had mastered time manipulation for commercial use while I was turned the other way and I couldn’t believe it. But then I started thinking about the struggle to meet deadlines, while other authors were churning out four books a year while also being active on all the socials. Not to mention the ones that self-published with the only apparent aim of filling Amazon’s marketplace with their creations.

“And you use it as well? No side-effects?”

“None at all. I sleep two hours more each day thanks to the TOD. I set it up a 4 and I nap until 4:02.” He did look less exhausted.

I shook the remaining ice cubes in my glass. “Look, it makes for a good story and all, but…”

“God damnit, Mike. This is not a prank. You know what? Bring it home. Try it. You can give it back to me tomorrow. And do give it back.”

I stared at the device, my mind still lulled by a comforting sense of disbelief. Thoughts about the TOD’s potential were already creeping in. If time could really be put on pause, I could finally catch my breath. Even just the prospect of sleeping more seemed promising enough.

That afternoon I had to write two articles for a magazine that paid well, Daily Horse, but I found the topic so dull that I rarely managed to submit on time. My friend had gone through the trouble of providing a believable-looking machine for what had to be an elaborate prank, so I could as well indulge him by pressing a button.

I took note of my kitchen clock – 8 PM – then I pressed the button on the TOD. The display flashed and a timer came up: 00:00:00. At worst, it was going to register how long I could write about horses without boring myself to death. I set the TOD on my desk and started working.

My tolerance for quadrupeds turned out to be just two hours, according to the TOD’s display. I had managed to write two semi-passable drafts, so I could reward myself with a glass of water and maybe a snack. I pushed the pause button on the TOD, grinning. In a sense, it had helped my focus, if anything by sticking my butt to the chair with the desire to prove that bizarre technology as the prank it was.

The kitchen clock was fairly unimpressed with my efforts, though. Its long arm was placed firmly on the second tick after twelve. 8:02, I read, and then again, and then I picked up the TV remote. NBS had just started airing an old episode of Chicago Fire. The digital clock agreed with the analog one.

I went back to my studio feeling lightheaded. The words were there, on the screen. I read again my articles, felt the boredom seep through the lines, and sent the drafts to the magazine’s editor just to find solace in old habits. On the right bottom corner of the screen, flashed an 8:20.

For a time, I just stared blankly at my inbox. Somehow a glass of whiskey on the rocks had found its way to my hand but it just stood there, a thin layer of icy sweat all around it. Small droplets of water coalesced and trickled down my fingers.

I gulped down the glass’ contents then picked up my phone, toggled off silent mode, and called my friend.

“This changes everything,” I told him.

---

The day after I went to the mall to buy my own TOD. The excitement hadn’t run off. It was pretty much like discovering a whole new continent of possibilities accessible just to myself and a very small court of initiates. As soon as the brand-new device was in my hands I ran home and booted it up. Now I could work in my “spare” time – stretching minutes into hours and making progress at unbelievable pace.

It also worked in the other way, meaning I could rest whenever I wanted. As my friend had pointed out, a nap didn’t need to burn a whole afternoon anymore, and it wasn’t just that. Having the TOD turned time into a cheap commodity – if I got distracted or lost my flow, I no longer had to feel guilty about it. I no longer had to sacrifice parties and social occasions to the often-ungrateful altar of my work. Whatever time I lost I could make up and more importantly, I actually did.

By the time the editor from the Daily Horse answered my first email, I had churned out two more articles and my novel had grown by a hefty thirty pages. I renewed my efforts on other venues as well and for a blessed month I was everywhere: fiction, non-fiction, blog posts, Instagram, twitter, always interacting, always being visible. My novel had graduated to first draft. The only drawback was the speed at which I grew hungry and the number of trips to the local store, but it really was a small price to pay compared with the huge leaps forward my career was having. After all, the more you write the more you get better at it, and I was keeping myself far ahead of the curve.

After that first rush, my agent found a publisher for my novel rather quickly, a nice surprise fitting my accelerated rhythm. It was time to celebrate, and I did celebrate, but I was also smart enough to strike the iron while hot. I began to work to a new project straight away.

This time let’s keep the door open for serialization, I told myself.

---

A year has passed, and I’ve managed to publish four novels, secure a contract for a fourth, publish ten contributions to major magazines, and I don’t know how many blog posts. I’m the main pen behind Daily Horse and my hate for those beasts has grown into a seeping, all-consuming loathing. This should be my ramp to success.

My goals are getting a little closer every day. Just a little, yea. Knowledge of the TOD might have spread to a larger public, though, because some already prolific authors are now on a 10-books a year schedule. Every month a new King or Connely or Inoue hits the shelves, not to mention the tide of Amazon releases. But I try not to think about it too much. I am just happy my work has found some venues, and I must say my agent and my editor are extremely timely. I met both, thanking them profusely for pushing my books forward in this saturated market, and I told them how surprised I was for the fast-publishing process.

The editor looked at me, her eyes sunken in a failing net of wrinkles. She appeared five years older than her professional picture online. But then again, when I look in the mirror, I don’t resemble the picture I chose for my author’s bio either.