A day in the life, part the third

So I have finished reading Humbar's manuscript. But something strange is going on with it. Much of it seems to have been written by someone else. Is Humbar developing a split personality? Did he try to save money by parceling out some of the work to someone other than me? (If this is the case, a pox be upon him!) And if two people wrote this, which work is Humbar's and which is the other person's?

He took a step closer. I could back away no further, cornered as I was. I sand to the floor, hoping that--for once--he would sense my terror, would show me mercy, would turn around and walk away.

But no. His face reddened in rage, blood vessels burst in his eyes, and he struck.

The first blow blinded me for a moment, and white stars exploded inside my head. The next blow took my breath away.

And this time, somethign in me snapped. I shook the fog from my brain and rose to my own defense.

I will leave you to wonder what happens next. Because when all is said and done, I'm a bad-hearted person. But you already knew that.

I must ponder my dilemma. How to turn this cobbled together manuscript into something worthy of, well, me. I daresay I will rewrite the whole thing. Not that I couldn't match the style of the properly written material, but my heart suggests that it would be wise not to leave any of the manuscript intact; after all, what if Humbar nicked portions of someone else's manuscript? He's slimy enough, and I wouldn't put such a thing past him.

A day in the life, part the second

The door closes behind the departing tech writer. I smile. This will be an easy job. Due at the end of the week or he can't take his scheduled vacation...a Carribean cruise. For singles. I daresay he fell behind on this project because of spending too much work time on the net looking at, well, "inappropriate" sites. Not the first time one of my work-at-home clients has had that problem.

He's left me with two CDs (Note: CDs!). One contains the manual he's almost completed, all his background information, and an actual project plan. The other contains recorded demos. Oh, I do love tech writers. All I have to do is finish his PowerPoint training presentations. All in a day's work. I smile in satisfaction.

Then my eye catches the floppy disk left by Humbar. My good mood dissipates. I might as well read the manuscript now; putting it off won't make it any better.

Chapter One

My mother was committed to a psychiatric hospital for a few days when she was 18.

Oh, dear god in heaven. Humbar is getting worse! Has he started drinking? What kind of first sentence is that? I read on.

But her father had her released. Something about insurance not paying for it. Then she met my dad and they ran off and got married. I was born in 1973, the oldest child. Then my brothers came along in 1975 and 1978. Mom and Dad loved them more. They were boys. Mom and Dad kept me in a cage. I don’t know why.

I sigh and wonder what it is, after all, that attracts me to this job. I should keep reading, get acquainted with the whole story, but I can't help it: I open a new file, this one formatted correctly (unlike Humbar's) and start typing.

I sat pressed against the bars of my cage, as near to the Christmas tree as I could get. Mom had just turned on the lights, and the sparkles of the bright colours from the tinsel made me smile. I hid that smile behind my hand. If Mom saw that I was happy, She would throw the cover back over the cage, and I wouldn’t be able to watch my brothers open their gifts.

They were still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, but I knew better. There couldn’t be a Santa Claus, because if there was, I wouldn’t live in this cage; I’d live in a fairy castle somewhere far, far away.

All right. Certainly not the final product, but good enough to be getting on with for now. Fearing my eyes will be bleeding long before I finish, I read on.

A day in the life, part the first

So today, I'm meeting with a client--one of my regulars--when I sense someone approaching. A tech writer. You can always tell the tech writers; something about their stride (precise) and their stance (nervous) gives them away.

Keeping only half my attention on the client before me, I watch the tech writer sidle down the alley. I can feel his heartbeat quicken; I can smell his agitation; I can see him look from side to side, hoping to find my door and not to be seen by anyone who knows him.

With a flick of a finger, a motion that goes unnoticed by the small, fat man cowering on the other side of my desk, I illuminate the door for my new customer. He puts a hesitant hand on the knob, and after a last sidelong glance in either direction, he opens the door and slips in. He jumps a little when the latch clicks behind him. I smile.

"All right, all right," I interrupt my client's tedious tirade about his current subject (who is, I daresay, twice as smart as he is), "I understand what you need this time. When's it due?"

"Five weeks from tomorrow," he says, his voice nasal and snivelling.

I stand and tower over the man. "Very well," I say, and I hold out a hand. He hands me a floppy disk. A floppy disk, for god's sake! He's had a year to get this book done, he hasn't completed it, and it's small enough to fit on a floppy. I roll my eyes. "Go now. I'll contact you when the job is finished."

With a pathetic little bow, he turns away, opens the door to the outer office, and plods out. He brushes past the tech writer, not apologizing when he bumps him, and leaves. Good riddance.

I give my new client a welcoming smile and hold out my hand. "What can I do for you today, my friend?" I ask as I gesture for him to come into my office and take a seat.

He looks back at the door, which has now closed behind my departed client. "Who's that?"

"Ah. That's Humbar Procter. You haven't heard of him?" The tech writer shakes his head. "Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't have. He's a ghostwriter. Or bills himself as such. Really, though, his writing is rubbish. In the end, he brings his projects to me to finish for him." I hold up the floppy disk, then toss it onto my desk.

I return to my antique leather chair, lean back, and examine the new client before me. He's a regular-looking chap, but then, the tech writers always are. Clean-cut, clean clothes, just basically clean. I do like getting jobs from tech writers, even if they are few and far between.

I repeat my first question. "What can I do for you today?"