The Last Story

I overheard my friend, Marvin, talking on his phone.

“There must be some mistake. I’m not qualified. Everyone thinks I’m a hack…”

“The Committee has voted. There is no mistake. The commission is assigned to you.”

“But why me?”

“Does that really matter? Someone has to do it. Why not you?”

“That’s my problem. How am I supposed to…”

“Look, Marvin, you have until next Friday. After that, absolutely no one can do it. It will be against the law.”

“There are literally millions of people more qualified.”

“The committee has chosen you, Marvin. Next Friday at midnight the window closes.”

The line went silent. Marvin read the document again.

“After thorough consideration, by order of …, for the following enumerated reasons, including, but not limited to …

…Marvin L. Snyder is hereby commissioned to write the last story permitted by law.”

The fine print read: “Should Mr. Snyder refuse the commission, no other writer shall be commissioned and further, all previous stories deemed by The Committee to be unacceptable, offensive, inappropriate, or superfluous, shall be permanently expunged from the archives. Mr. Snyder’s story shall be considered the official last story, regardless of its title, length, content, quality, or literary merit. The only restriction on the story is that it must not make use of synthetic intelligence. It must be the original work of Marvin L. Snyder. Failure to comply with this restriction shall be punishable by life imprisonment…”

Marvin did not know where to begin. If he failed to deliver, millions of stories were at risk of deletion. The work of thousands of great authors. Not third-rate amateurs like him. He had no story ideas, not even a premise. He had always written when it suited him. He was not as disciplined as most great authors were. Now, without warning, he had been chosen. There were still best-selling authors out there. Pulitzer winners. National book club award winners. Nobel Prize winners, for Pete’s sake. His greatest on-line complement so far was, “Snyder’s latest story wasn’t as bad as his previous one.” He sighed, “Well, at least I don’t have any awards to live up to.”

It occurred to Marvin that maybe the committee expected him to fail. Then, they could say, “This proves stories are not worth writing anymore.” But he was sure he didn’t want to go out with a whimper. He wanted his story to do justice to the writers who had gone before. There might not be many readers left, but he wanted those who read it to think it was a decent effort. “And maybe in a few hundred years, someone might notice it and think a kind thought or two.” Marvin knew he had to write it first.

Anyone who has written a school essay or term paper knows the hardest part is deciding where to start. Sometimes a good start is more than half the battle. To know your story will be the last…I can’t imagine. Marvin had one week. Not a year or even a month. There wasn’t time to have a few false starts. And no synthetic intelligence would be allowed to save him.

Marvin thought about all the stories he had read and heard. What is really worth writing about? Was anything unique anymore, much less new? Maybe the committee was right about one thing. Thousands of worthwhile, certainly world-changing stories had already been written. And people weren’t even reading those. What could he possibly add? Maybe he should just write a story of death. The death of reading? The death of writing? The death of creativity? There he was, standing on the deck of the Titanic of Culture being told to rearrange the chairs one last time. Should this be a story of loss or of hope? Of the sum of things or of a new beginning? He didn’t know. He decided to give himself a day to “think about it.”

Marvin’s friends weren’t much help. “Don’t overthink it.” “Write what you know.” “Be yourself.” He heard more clichés than Carter’s had little liver pills. He doubted himself. What if he didn’t know that much? What if his true self really was a hack? He tried out some opening lines: “It was the best of stories…” Nah. “Call me Marvin…” Nope.” “Once upon a midnight…” Not that. “When in the course of…” C’mon.  “It was an ancient mariner…” “It was a dark and stormy night…” Great Caesar’s ghost! “This is a story about a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer, but he kept his family fed…” He had nothing. This was basically how the first day went. And there was no light.

On the second day, he asked himself why he became a writer in the first place.

On the third day, he started to write. This is his story…

Why I Write, by Marvin L. Snyder

“You could say my life has taken a turn or three. I guess everyone’s life does. I didn’t set out to be a writer. Maybe you could say I set out to be righteous instead. I became a full-on Christian in college. And I tried to live up to my faith. Mostly. I was far from perfect and realized I had far to go. But like all newly-minted Christians, I wanted to do my best – prayer vigils, Bible study, Christian reading materials – I read a lot of books by C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, Josh McDowell, and so on. I wanted to have a “firm foundation,” so to speak. Even so, I now realize I was trying hard to talk myself into a certain way of being a Christian. It’s taken decades to figure out what being a Christian means for me and how to live accordingly. It turns out that it is not what I thought it was. And I admit when I talked with others about what I believed back then, or rather what I thought I was supposed to believe, I sometimes might have been “a bit too much.”

“At that time, I was head-over-heels in love with an intelligent, talented, creative young lady. It was the kind of attraction that would have made me show up at certain places on the off chance that she might me there. Unfortunately, it was a long-distance relationship. But that wasn’t what ended it. I expressed ideas about religion that were at odds with hers. After a while she decided that we were “too different” and I was “too inflexible.” I’m not sure exactly what our differences were anymore, except to say she was exploring Theosophy with a dash of Buddhism, and I was locked in on the notion of the “one true God” who expected us to follow his moral code. I guess I must have been “a bit too much.”

“Anyhow, she found another guy and wrote me to say our relationship was over. I simply walked away because I wanted her to be happy. And besides, at the time there was this saying, “If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, it was meant to be.” Years later, I wondered if I had made some grand gesture, like flying across the country to see her, the way they do in the movies, could that have saved the relationship? Now, with the benefit of hindsight, and the fact that there would have been no guarantee our relationship would have worked out even if I did such a thing, I now believe it was all for the best.

“So…young love didn’t turn out the way I had hoped. Life rarely works out the way you see it in your head. I soon came to a fork in the road. I took the path leading to teaching and a permanent relationship. The writing I did along that path was for academic purposes, certainly not to express great ideas or create art. Many years passed as I settled into that life. To be honest, there was a part of me that remained undiscovered and therefore unfulfilled. As I write this now, I realize that my story is difficult to write. One can write tall tales about others pretty easily, but when the story must reflect your own reality, that’s not so easy. I’m not a mythological creature, yet parts of me are as hard to confront as the monsters or demons in a myth. It’s not easy to tell the truth about yourself. And no one can do it for you. Maybe I write because it’s one way out of the box I lived in for so long.

“While from the outside my life must have seemed routine, or according to some, “boring,” inside my head there existed a confusing and chaotic space. It was full of dreams that will never come true, half-baked ideas, myriad disappointments, and limitations, some of which were self-imposed, while others I believed were the results of karma, or something like it. I’ve often thought that if I was attacked – seriously physically attacked – a lifetime of pent-up frustration and anger might be released, and God help the attacker if I got the better of him. This is highly unlikely, of course, but such is the inside of my head. Any of us might unleash their inner dragon under the right circumstances, no matter how mild-mannered or sophisticated we might appear to be.

“We’re all on a journey, winding our way through the world, and on that journey we all must learn the difference between truth and lies, between what we wanted to happen, what we would like to believe happened, and what really happened. Whenever I remember one of the many times I failed to make good choices, I still feel like an idiot – as in, “what in the name of common sense was I thinking?” Such is the call to justice I learned from Christian culture.

“I used to envy Christians who “survived” something – addiction, imprisonment, injury, and so on. I saw how people were enthralled by their every word. I thought they had more credibility than I’d ever have. On the other hand, I had good parents and a relatively “blessed” life, except for a car accident that could have been fatal and a few near misses behind the wheel and elsewhere. Fortunately, I have never had to choose between equally bad alternatives, except at the ballot box. And whenever I’ve encountered a bad alternative, I’ve usually had a hand in creating it. So, when I’ve suffered, I’ve usually suffered because of my own choices.

“I could write about old loves, broken promises, or how I fell short with my kids. Suffice it to say that the best and worst chapters of my life are all part of my story. Although my parents are gone now, I have not lost a child or a wife. I have not suffered a major injury or had major surgery. While I have dealt with a chronic condition, I haven’t felt the allure of gambling or drinking and I take drugs only when prescribed. Even then, I try to negotiate a lower dosage. I know some like to rehash their past, but I believe in moving on as much as possible. My main challenge now, besides writing this, is age. And maybe that’s one reason I write.

“What do you do when you’ve made your fair share of mistakes and lived long enough to “know better?” What do you do with seven decades of life experience? What do you do when the worst thing that ever happened to you is losing your job after almost four decades of service? What happens to all the work you put in along the way? Then again, what makes you think you have anything to offer? These questions and countless others swirl around your mind.

“The simplest answer to the big question is that I write to keep my mind active. I hope an active mind will be able to hold off the onset of dementia for a few years. Beyond that, I write to share what I have learned over the years, knowing full well that I may not be as credible as those who “turned their lives around.” And sometimes I just have fun putting a story together. Some work on puzzles. Others play games. I write stories. Maybe after reading this, someone else will find the courage to tell their story.

“I admit I’m not much of a writer. I don’t know why I was chosen for this commission. I do know I’m not capable of a great novel or an epic poem. I also know that after this story all stories will be banned. Apparently, some people don’t like the ideas that might be expressed in them. They are afraid of what stories might inspire people to do.

“I’m not sure about the “official last story” thing. Just because The Committee has criminalized story-writing doesn’t mean no one else will write. Humans have been writing ever since an unknown stone-age author decided to paint on a cave wall. It seems unlikely that the craft will die with me.

“I told my friends The Committee might want me to fail. If I do, The Committee can say that stories serve no purpose anymore. Yet, if my Christian background has taught me anything, it is that there is always hope for those who do good when they are called to do it, especially if they do it for the sake of others.

“My story may not be great, but I have learned that everyone’s story is important, including mine. Every human being should strive to be the best they can be and everyone’s story is part of that process. Clearly, no one should be told what words to say or write just to satisfy The Committee. We must all be true to ourselves.

“I write because I still have something to say. Not because religion compels me to or The Committee has commissioned me to. I will not stop writing until I run out of things to say. You, dear reader, shouldn’t either. If you have something to say, I hope you find the courage to say it. This may be the Official Last Story, but I’m certain there are more stories to tell. Civilizations will rise and fall, committees will come and go, but the story of humanity isn’t over yet.

“I’m not sure when the last story will be written. Maybe it will be when humans have lost their ability to read or have not been taught to read or no longer have time to read or have lost their desire to read or cannot tell truth from lies or synthetic from human intelligence or thoughtful fiction from propaganda.

“Maybe by then all the stories worth writing will have already been written. Maybe fearful, small-minded, power-hungry men will have edited, abridged, or banned them, and people will be afraid to read them. Or only a few people will be alive to read stories after the self-proclaimed “great men” have destroyed civilization.

“The invention of writing was one of the greatest of humankind. Nevertheless, the last story might be written shortly before writing becomes obsolete and once again the oral tradition rules.

“The first written stories – of myths and legends and gods and monsters, of laws and deeds and kings and queens, of people being people, and things being things – were written in remembrance of the storytellers of old.

“Maybe one day storytellers will pay their respects to the written word and tell its story in defiance of those who want to censor us.

“Maybe one day…

“But today is not that day!”

—–

Not long after he submitted this story, Marvin disappeared. The Committee published another story, written by synthetic intelligence, as the Official Last Story. Marvin told me if anything happened to him, I must share his last story. Good luck, my friend.