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Stolen Words
Once again Andrew found himself driving around the Valley foraging through yard sales for hidden treasure. He never knew what he was looking for, he would know it when he saw it. The great thing about Los Angeles west valley, there were so many garage, estate, and yard sales on the weekend. The day produced a pretty lack-luster haul. He did manage to find a paperweight for his office.
Navigating his way back home, there was an estate sale on the way. He decided to make this his last stop before heading home. Pulling up to the home, most of what was being sold was out in the garage. He saw the usual assortment of useless trinkets. All of the things people think they can sell and make money from. Browsing around the junk, he came to a dishwasher size cardboard box of books.
The books ranged from old to new, topic to topic. Andrew did not have a chance to look at most of the books. He was more interested in finding out if the price on the box was a mistake. It appeared they wanted a whole five dollars for all these books. Approaching the tycoon who was running this business, Andrew quickly inquired about the books. It was relayed to him that the contents of the box belonged to a now-deceased relative and the memories attached were better gone from sight. Andrew didn't need much more convincing than that. He paid the price and got some assistance from the owner carting the books to his SUV. It looks like this weekend was not a total bust.
Getting the books home he was greeted by his girlfriend. She never joined him on these runs. She was content to do anything but drive around looking for cheap stuff. Andrew overlooked this. They were not perfect by any means. Carrying the books to his office, he was pleased to unpack the books and get them on the shelf.
Towards the end of the box, things got interesting. He came across several thick notebooks. Opening them, Andrew was shocked. They were full of writing. Reading page after page, he saw they were novels. Andrew made his living as a freelance writer. He was good, whoever wrote these words was great. Wanting to know who the author was, he googled passage after passage. Nothing was showing up on the internet. He just could not imagine this was not a published author.
Calling Sherry up to his office and explaining this unique find, she had her usual apathy towards his writing. She was smart enough to sense his dilemma. She asked, "you're not thinking of taking this are you?" Andrew scoffed "I would never plagiarise a dead writer's work!" Although, this work was fantastic and with a little tweaking, he could see how this would make all the difference to his writing career.
Andrew poured through all of the writing over several weeks. He was amazed at how this writer weaved his stories together. Over a month or two of reading, the rationalization to take this work, and do this writer some justice took hold. The world should benefit from this work. He reached out to his editor after typing up one of the novels. Several days passed. Finally, his editor reached out to him. The review was unlike any other he ever heard. The terms "bestseller" was thrown around multiple times.
If he needed any nudging to go over the edge, he got it. This book was going to be shopped. The book was a hit as suspected. Andrew was a little known writer who turned success with one book. Success and its labels are funny. People even read his first novel with different eyes. Whereas before, it was badly reviewed. People started now reviewing the book with more favorable ratings. His freelance career started to grow, but what everyone wanted to know was when would he write another book.
If you asked Andrew, and he was asked, he was that writer. The nagging phantom of him stealing this book from an unpublished, and now deceased writer, didn't seem to bother him at first. At home, with Sherry, it only seemed to get worse. She seemed to enjoy the financial upside of his stolen fame, but as they bickered often, she would jab him relentlessly about the truth of his writing. Mostly it would pass as most of the arguments did.
The literary wolves we're starving. His agent, his editor, the readers, all wanted the next book. Surely, he was working on it. Of course, it would be another masterpiece. Again, Andrew went to the notebooks and found his next story. He had changed a few details, characters, words the last time. This time, under pressure, he took everything line by line. After typing up the book, for the first time, Andrew felt some guilt. A writer who writes a piece of work of his own accord experiences a level of satisfaction in its completion and acceptance. Andrew felt none of that. He felt like a fraud.
That feeling didn't last long; the book was a smash again. Even more so than the last book. Any feeling of guilt or remorse we're fast disappearing. In a way, he forgot at all that he stole every word and passed it off as his own. There were some questions about his trajectory and how he seemingly tapped into this genius, but really nobody cared to dig deep. Andrew was an author like none other. When people began to make comparisons to Stephen King, Andrew was fully gone. He had almost banished any thought that he was a fraud. He did the interviews, he accepted the accolades, and basked in the limelight.
It wouldn't take long for Hollywood to come calling. His last work was on TV and movie ready. He was getting offers for movie deals and everyone wanted in. At home after a wine-filled night out on the town. Sherry had made a comment that triggered the bickering that led to the full-blown fights that were common for them. In the heat of the argument, Sherry had gotten so angry she threatened to expose Andrew as a fraud. She even went as far as to dial a few digits on her phone. In the end, she did not. It was all just anger and the fact was, she loved Andrew.
Sherry left the townhome that night. She just wanted space from her anger, she was several bottles of wine drunk. Andrew was thankful she did not call anyone, but he was also so angry with her he didn't stop her from driving away drunk. Besides, in odd timing, one of the studios that wanted to make a movie based on his book called. He quickly became engrossed in that call and forgot all about Sherry.
The following morning, groggy and hungover, a knock on his townhouse door he assumed would be Sherry, was the LAPD. They informed him that Sherry was in a violent collision driving drunk on the 118 freeway. She did not survive the crash. This news struck Andrew like a ton of bricks. He collapsed to his knees and cried like a baby. He was so distraught, the police were hesitant leaving him, in fear he would hurt himself. He just prostrated himself and muttered, "this is all my fault."
After the grieving period, her funeral, and some time, work resumed for Andrew. The studios still had a movie to make. Eventually, a deal was made. Sometime later the movie was released. Just like the book, the movie was a box office smash. He was thrust back into stardom, Andrew was a visionary writer unlike anything on the literary scene. Meanwhile, in a turn of events, not even Andrew saw coming. The notebooks he had bought for five dollars at the garage sale, we're not the only ones.
It turned out neatly typed copies of every word we're kept in that family. The same garage sale tycoon who sold the books to Andrew went to go see that movie. She was intimately familiar with her grandfather's writing. He had inspired her to write. She left the theatre and tore home and reviewed the typed works of her deceased grandfather. This movie was his work. She googled passages and found Andrew. Furious, she recognized him. Always good with faces. She remembered selling him a box of her grandfather's old books.
Calls were made, and the story about Andrew's writing started to make the rounds. Andrew denied the allegations initially. When the original typed writing and the very typewriter used to type the words we're produced, Andrew was finished. He was ridiculed, held legally responsible, effectively banned from the literary community. Everything he had ever written was under scrutiny. The personal toll, shame, and loss from Andrew's stolen words buried his career, his pride, and the woman he loved. Andrew never wrote again.
© Rising Darkstar
Navigating his way back home, there was an estate sale on the way. He decided to make this his last stop before heading home. Pulling up to the home, most of what was being sold was out in the garage. He saw the usual assortment of useless trinkets. All of the things people think they can sell and make money from. Browsing around the junk, he came to a dishwasher size cardboard box of books.
The books ranged from old to new, topic to topic. Andrew did not have a chance to look at most of the books. He was more interested in finding out if the price on the box was a mistake. It appeared they wanted a whole five dollars for all these books. Approaching the tycoon who was running this business, Andrew quickly inquired about the books. It was relayed to him that the contents of the box belonged to a now-deceased relative and the memories attached were better gone from sight. Andrew didn't need much more convincing than that. He paid the price and got some assistance from the owner carting the books to his SUV. It looks like this weekend was not a total bust.
Getting the books home he was greeted by his girlfriend. She never joined him on these runs. She was content to do anything but drive around looking for cheap stuff. Andrew overlooked this. They were not perfect by any means. Carrying the books to his office, he was pleased to unpack the books and get them on the shelf.
Towards the end of the box, things got interesting. He came across several thick notebooks. Opening them, Andrew was shocked. They were full of writing. Reading page after page, he saw they were novels. Andrew made his living as a freelance writer. He was good, whoever wrote these words was great. Wanting to know who the author was, he googled passage after passage. Nothing was showing up on the internet. He just could not imagine this was not a published author.
Calling Sherry up to his office and explaining this unique find, she had her usual apathy towards his writing. She was smart enough to sense his dilemma. She asked, "you're not thinking of taking this are you?" Andrew scoffed "I would never plagiarise a dead writer's work!" Although, this work was fantastic and with a little tweaking, he could see how this would make all the difference to his writing career.
Andrew poured through all of the writing over several weeks. He was amazed at how this writer weaved his stories together. Over a month or two of reading, the rationalization to take this work, and do this writer some justice took hold. The world should benefit from this work. He reached out to his editor after typing up one of the novels. Several days passed. Finally, his editor reached out to him. The review was unlike any other he ever heard. The terms "bestseller" was thrown around multiple times.
If he needed any nudging to go over the edge, he got it. This book was going to be shopped. The book was a hit as suspected. Andrew was a little known writer who turned success with one book. Success and its labels are funny. People even read his first novel with different eyes. Whereas before, it was badly reviewed. People started now reviewing the book with more favorable ratings. His freelance career started to grow, but what everyone wanted to know was when would he write another book.
If you asked Andrew, and he was asked, he was that writer. The nagging phantom of him stealing this book from an unpublished, and now deceased writer, didn't seem to bother him at first. At home, with Sherry, it only seemed to get worse. She seemed to enjoy the financial upside of his stolen fame, but as they bickered often, she would jab him relentlessly about the truth of his writing. Mostly it would pass as most of the arguments did.
The literary wolves we're starving. His agent, his editor, the readers, all wanted the next book. Surely, he was working on it. Of course, it would be another masterpiece. Again, Andrew went to the notebooks and found his next story. He had changed a few details, characters, words the last time. This time, under pressure, he took everything line by line. After typing up the book, for the first time, Andrew felt some guilt. A writer who writes a piece of work of his own accord experiences a level of satisfaction in its completion and acceptance. Andrew felt none of that. He felt like a fraud.
That feeling didn't last long; the book was a smash again. Even more so than the last book. Any feeling of guilt or remorse we're fast disappearing. In a way, he forgot at all that he stole every word and passed it off as his own. There were some questions about his trajectory and how he seemingly tapped into this genius, but really nobody cared to dig deep. Andrew was an author like none other. When people began to make comparisons to Stephen King, Andrew was fully gone. He had almost banished any thought that he was a fraud. He did the interviews, he accepted the accolades, and basked in the limelight.
It wouldn't take long for Hollywood to come calling. His last work was on TV and movie ready. He was getting offers for movie deals and everyone wanted in. At home after a wine-filled night out on the town. Sherry had made a comment that triggered the bickering that led to the full-blown fights that were common for them. In the heat of the argument, Sherry had gotten so angry she threatened to expose Andrew as a fraud. She even went as far as to dial a few digits on her phone. In the end, she did not. It was all just anger and the fact was, she loved Andrew.
Sherry left the townhome that night. She just wanted space from her anger, she was several bottles of wine drunk. Andrew was thankful she did not call anyone, but he was also so angry with her he didn't stop her from driving away drunk. Besides, in odd timing, one of the studios that wanted to make a movie based on his book called. He quickly became engrossed in that call and forgot all about Sherry.
The following morning, groggy and hungover, a knock on his townhouse door he assumed would be Sherry, was the LAPD. They informed him that Sherry was in a violent collision driving drunk on the 118 freeway. She did not survive the crash. This news struck Andrew like a ton of bricks. He collapsed to his knees and cried like a baby. He was so distraught, the police were hesitant leaving him, in fear he would hurt himself. He just prostrated himself and muttered, "this is all my fault."
After the grieving period, her funeral, and some time, work resumed for Andrew. The studios still had a movie to make. Eventually, a deal was made. Sometime later the movie was released. Just like the book, the movie was a box office smash. He was thrust back into stardom, Andrew was a visionary writer unlike anything on the literary scene. Meanwhile, in a turn of events, not even Andrew saw coming. The notebooks he had bought for five dollars at the garage sale, we're not the only ones.
It turned out neatly typed copies of every word we're kept in that family. The same garage sale tycoon who sold the books to Andrew went to go see that movie. She was intimately familiar with her grandfather's writing. He had inspired her to write. She left the theatre and tore home and reviewed the typed works of her deceased grandfather. This movie was his work. She googled passages and found Andrew. Furious, she recognized him. Always good with faces. She remembered selling him a box of her grandfather's old books.
Calls were made, and the story about Andrew's writing started to make the rounds. Andrew denied the allegations initially. When the original typed writing and the very typewriter used to type the words we're produced, Andrew was finished. He was ridiculed, held legally responsible, effectively banned from the literary community. Everything he had ever written was under scrutiny. The personal toll, shame, and loss from Andrew's stolen words buried his career, his pride, and the woman he loved. Andrew never wrote again.
© Rising Darkstar
