WRITERS BLOCK

Every day was the same in the Writers Block, and had been for the past five years. For Minty that meant waking up in his cube, booting his terminal, taking an assignment, typing, submitting, hoping it was accepted and that money was deposited into his account.

Monday — Influencer Copy Regarding Advanced Cosmetics, #BeautyBlock ($500)

Tuesday — Obituary for Minor State Government Official, Natural Causes ($200)

Wednesday — Objective Review of Technology Device, Positive/Recommend ($400)

Thursday — Virtual Life Coach Sermon, Manifesting Upgrades ($100)

Friday — Brief Article on Extinction of Rhinoceros, Upbeat ($150)

Delivering one assignment per day afforded Minty sustenance and socialization in the Commissary, an acceptable Tier 1 wardrobe, base level gym access, and a small charitable donation to the Untraded Foundation, which provided aid to the sickly masses outside the Blocks in the so-called “soup.”

Like every resident worker of the Writers Block, he had become a cog in the machine when the most ambitious federal infrastructure initiative ever undertaken had been enacted. Extensive psychological research had concluded that, given the necessity of long-term isolation, humans were 12% more likely to be content and productive surrounded by likeminded individuals within their own vocation than they would be sorted by company or family.

Minty’s brother, Wright, was a skilled woodworker, and thus inhabited the Crafters Block in North Carolina. The Writers Block, meanwhile, had been built in Iowa City, the University’s famed writing program having been moved within the Block’s impenetrable walls and deconstructed into a comprehensive trade school, ensuring a steady supply of wordsmith talent for generations to come.

It was a Tuesday that Minty awoke at the time he always did, booted his terminal, and checked his assignments.

Tuesday — Short Story Involving Little Black Notebook, Fiction ($20,000)

At first, he assumed it was a typo, something he had been conditioned to abhor, but thought it best to take a walk to the Commissary prior to declining.

The energy was different in the sprawling mess hall that morning, the diners far more upbeat than usual. He spotted his friend Roma and sat down next to her. It was clear she was trying to stifle a smile.

“What’s with you this morning?” Minty asked.

“Nothing, just had a dream about a beach,” Roma lied.

“Seems like everyone had the same dream,” he looked around, every writer pouring nootropic coffee into their heads, wolfing down probiotic vegan protein bars and gluten-free vitamin D muffins.

“Did you get it too?” she asked.

“Get what?”

“THE assignment.”

“The black notebook thing? Did you?”

“So mysterious.”

“Doesn’t make any sense. I never get fiction, and when I do it’s $50 and I decline,” Minty shook his head.

“You accepted this one, right?”

“Sure,” he lied back, “But I have no idea what they want.”

“Who cares. As long as it’s not complete rubbish, you’ll probably get paid,” encouraged Roma, “We all will. Just think of the upgrades we can afford. Pea protein burgers, vegetables, access to the film lounge, Sweat+ membership, Tier 5 wardrobe options. I can’t even concentrate I’m so excited.”

“Suppose we should get started then,” he stood, “Break a leg.”

Minty wandered to the Sundries Shoppe, which kept a permanent supply of untouched notebooks, pens and pencils, but only ever needed to restock terminal cleaner and microfiber cloths.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to dust that same big stack of little black notebooks over the years,” the aging clerk chuckled, “Today I open up and there’s a line down the hall. Like Black Notebook Friday, chaos until every last one was gone. Never seen anything like it.”

Minty felt a sense of panic overtake him. He was way behind, and felt suddenly competitive, even though there had been no indication that this was a competition. He rushed to the elevator and back up to his cube, where he checked the virtual store and found they too were sold out of notebooks. It could be days or weeks before they restocked, and he needed it now, this morning, hours ago.

How was he going to write about something he couldn’t hold? Beautiful cream-colored pages he couldn’t flip through and fan his face. A silken bookmark that held one’s place and the elastic strap that kept their most intimate expressions safe. A smooth leather cover that felt the exact same in his hand as it once had in those of the world’s greatest authors as they traversed the Parisian landscape in search of lively conversation and opportunities for excessive imbibing.

He returned out into the Block and walked the courtyard, where everyone in sight was feverishly scribbling in their brand new notebooks. He could hear the chorus of roller balls scratching the surface of the paper, a swelling symphony of creation he was doomed to passively observe.

They all looked so happy. These were not the greedy smiles of people anticipating a big payday. They were accustomed to the solitary punching of keys, anonymous to the world from their cube, locked in their own mind, inputting words like data that disappeared into the ether without discussion, their only validation the slight uptick of the number in their account. But now they were together, having spirited debates, laughing, trading stories and providing commentary. Enjoying the process of these last moments before the tide rose for them all.

There was a message from his brother when he returned to his cube. Wright’s face popped onto the terminal, the faint sound of band saws and lathes behind him.

“Hey little brother, how goes it?” Wright smiled.

“It’s a crazy day, I don’t know what to do,” Minty sulked.

“Aw dang, you’re not caught up in that notebook thing, are you?”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“You know how the Stationary Block buys our scrap, sawdust and all that, right? To make pulp with.”

“Yeah.”

“We also source all our wood marking supplies from the Ink Block, grease pens, pencils, all that stuff. They’ve both been having demand issues. Talked to my buddy at Stationary the other day, he says it’s bad there, man. Like, he’s scared they’re gonna go through massive untrading and he could be out in the soup.”

“So, it’s Stationary’s assignment?”

“Heard rumors it’s a last-ditch effort to save their Block. If they go down, Ink’s not far behind them, and we’re probably next. Whole system starts falling like dominoes, one after the other.”

“You think it’s real?”

“No idea. But there’s like, what, ten thousand in the Writers Block, give or take? That’s $200million somebody’s pumping into your Block. I promise you that ain’t coming from Stationary alone. If I had to guess, I’d say it was some kind of government bailout.”

“Notebooks are sold out. Everywhere. I was too slow,” Minty begins to cry.

“Hey. Mint, listen man. You were always so damn creative with your imagination. I made things with my hands, but the stuff that came out of that head of yours was like, prolific. You don’t need a notebook to write about one. You’ve had a million of them over the years, before all this. I never saw you without one. Everybody misses how things were, I know I do. Just write from the heart. What it meant to you to be able to actually go somewhere, anywhere, pull that little black notebook out of your pocket and scribble something down. Something someone said, or just some random thought you had. Heck, if you can tap into something that resonates, maybe it’ll save us all. No pressure.”

“Thanks, Wright. I miss you.”

“Miss you too, bud.”

Minty opened his terminal to a flashing cursor and his fingers began to type as he allowed his mind to drift back to a place it was rarely allowed to venture. A time when his family was together. Wright throwing him a perfect spiral football he’d return like an injured bird. The smell of his father grilling in the backyard while he helped his mother make potato salad he refused to eat. The time he went to New York in the autumn by himself and just walked for days, stopping in bars and cafes in the village to write about the people he met who were much friendlier than advertised, and even those whose curt rudeness was a delightful novelty. The stacks of observational journals he’d kept, notebooks for jokes, for stories, one for a screenplay he never finished. His brother was right, he didn’t need to hold one in order to remember the tactile joy of a fresh page full of possibilities.

The trip down memory lane had opened the floodgates, and Minty sunk into a deep depression, not leaving his room or even checking his assignments for two days. He slept, dreamt, slept and dreamt until the hunger pains motivated him to his feet. He took a shower and begrudgingly trekked down to the Commissary, where all the other writers were sporting at least Tier 3 wardrobe. They all carried notebooks as they bustled about. He spotted Roma writing.

“There you are,” she hugged him, “Where have you been hiding?”

“Last couple days took it out of me.”

“Do you like my new wardrobe? It’s mostly 4, but the shoes are a 6, I totally splurged. How come you’re still wearing your 1’s?”

“You look great. I haven’t checked if my story was accepted yet.”

“What?! Are you kidding? Literally everyone got the fee. It’s like a totally different Block. You wanna go see a movie later? I mean, if your fee came through. If not, we can do something else. It’ll be packed anyway.”

Minty walked to the Sundries Shoppe, where the pile of little black notebooks had not only been replenished, but moved to the front of the store and doubled in size. He grabbed a stack of five, a couple of choice pens, and checked out.

Returning to his cube, he booted up his terminal, his heart beating fast with nervous anticipation. Insecurities about his story echoed loudly in his brain. Had he focused too much on the past? Had it been too saccharine? Too sincere? Too damn sad? Before he could check his account, he noticed eight notifications from Wright.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Wright smiled.

“I took a break. What did I miss?”

“I don’t want to give you a big head, but the notebook stories are everywhere. Thousands of them. They’re reading them in every Block. It’s, like, a whole thing.”

“Wait, really? Are you messing with me?”

“Why would I— Okay, I would, but I’m not. Stationary not only bought us out of scrap, but they’re asking us just to shred material in bulk. They can’t keep up with the demand. Ink prices have stabilized, so we’re just crushing it financially right now. Everyone is.”

“Amazing. I don’t even know if my story was accepted, though, I was just about to check, but I’m too nervous.”

“Mint. Bro. Okay, look, you should’ve asked me before you used my real name, and like, there’s some stuff that would definitely not come out of my mouth, but I got people calling me from all sorts of Blocks asking if that character is based on me. I’m like, a celebrity in the workshop all of a sudden. It’s nuts.”

“You’re kidding. I can’t believe— Hold on.”

Minty paused the call and checked his account. Sure enough, a $20,000 deposit had been made.

“Wright. I gotta go.”

“All right, man. Look, I’m proud of you.”

Minty ended the call and took one of his notebooks out of the bag. He chose a pen and headed out the door, down the elevator, out into the courtyard, and sat comfortably against a tree. He took a deep breath of fresh air as he turned to the first blank page. He clicked his pen.