June 2, 2036
Her fingers flew over the keys; churning out lines of code and testing them as fast as she could. She didn't need to create a full operating system from scratch; just a framework that would let her keep the reactor from exploding or dying. She typed on the edge of panic. Any faster and she risked her own melt down. Mistakes which would create panic which would create more mistakes in a spiral that ended with her hyperventilating on the floor.
"Undignified way to die. Much better to go out punching keys even when you know it won't work."
She squashed the treacherous thought. It wasn't wrong but it also wasn't helpful.
"Going to die because you can't focus on an impossible task because you know it doesn't matter because you -"
"What's it about?"
I looked up from my book to see a woman sitting across from me. We stared at each other for a beat.
"What?"
"What you're reading, what's it about?"
"It's my book," I answered lamely.
"Yes, your book. I know what personal media is."
I stared at her in mute confusion and tried not to let my face betray any disgust. It was my book. You didn't ask people about their books. For the most part you didn't tell people about your personal media. It wasn't just that people's personal media was usually only interesting to themselves. It often touched on private neurosis or embarrassing desires. People spent years getting an autothor tuned to their exact tastes and topics. My book knew me better than my own husband. It knew things about me that I'd never told my parents or friends. It was more mine than anything else I possessed.
"If you don't want to talk about it just say so. You just looked so engrossed," The woman said and broke eye contact to look out of the bus before continuing. "When I was your age we had social media. It was just as addicting but people looked bored when they used it. Slop, we called it. It was a fair name but I shared memes with my friends. We had fun together. Now everyone uses personal media. It's ten times better. People even claim it's edifying. I've read the stuff they hold up as examples. I believe them. It's good but I miss when art was shared, even if it was trash slop art."
There was a long silence.
"It's about ... a girl who is woken up from cryonic suspension ... because the human race is getting ready to abandon Earth to an alien invasion. It starts with her as a useless and woefully uninformed refugee and ... she ... well her life happens with a space opera war going on in the background. I mean, she doesn't stay useless but she'll never become the leader of human fleets or a badass," I answered lamely.
Silence, again.
"Sounds cool. Is it 'edifying' at all?" she asked.
My head spun. Yes, no, maybe. Having a self-insert protagonist who's victories and survival were almost entirely based in tenacity rather than talent had definitely stripped off some learned helplessness. Having her enter a love triangle that turned into a throuple that turned into a fairly literal cluster fuck had also peeled away some unrealistic romantic and erotic yearnings. Most of all reading a character acting out one's best and worst impulses and gaining and suffering for those decisions had instilled a certain gratitude for the simple pleasures of a boring life.
"Yeah ... I like to think so," I responded meekly.
There was a third silence.
"I wanted to be a fiction author for as far back as I can remember but I waited till I was thirty and wrote my first book in an obsessive fervor during the Covid lock down. It sold. I told myself I was going to be a big deal. I wrote for seven years. Then language models got good enough to write whole books, then good books, then write chapter by chapter perfect books for a given person. Now here we are. Book stores are dead, there are half as many authors writing half as many books which sell half as many copies as they used to to a readership that is half anthropophiles," she said.
"Sorry your career path didn't work out," I said, trying to sound sympathetic without sounding pitying and managing to over correct into apathetic.
"Firstly, I am still writing fiction professionally albeit as web serials rather than books. Second, I don't care about that. Careers come and go and I accepted that before I ever started typing. What bothers me is that I see people really enjoying books I'll never read. I can't ask strangers for recommendations because of personal media. I miss nerding out with other people. I want fandom as an institution back," she lamented.
I wondered how many awkward silences could fit into one conversation. My protagonist made decisions she regretted. She regretted putting off decisions. My book punished action and inaction with equal alacrity. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Famous last words.
"Do you really want to read my book?" I asked.
The woman's shocked expression was more gratifying than I'd ever admit.
"Uh, well, how long is it? What would I be signing up for?"
"Two point one nine million words."
"Oh, is that all? Um, if you actually want to share ... yeah, why not?"
"Okay, I'll think about it."
"No pressure. All of my contacts and stuff are on my website."
I got her contact info then we were at her stop and we parted. I stared out the window at the passing streets, tried to go back to reading my book, and quickly discovered that it had transmuted from a deeply engaging story to words on a screen. I navigated to a web serial I'd been implicitly recommended and started reading. The prose was off putting, the characters emotions all felt slightly inhuman, and the pacing was tedious. I persisted. If my book had taught me anything it was that discomfort came and went but every chance to expand yourself could be a once in a lifetime opportunity.
SciFiQuest 3025: Revenge of the Deathborg
This story probably owes its existence to the short story Eager Readers in Your Area! by Alexander Wales.