“Dear [AUTHOR], Thank you for
submitting [TITLE], but…”

Rows upon rows of units…tall, wide, deep— they stretched for what seemed like acres. Concrete was all that was below them…cold, solid cement—cracked from the strain. But it wasn’t the units the floor could barely support. It was what they contained.

                 In the midst of the strain stood Matthew Webber. Average height, average weight, average looks…everything about Matt was average. Except his IQ. Every year at the Standard Human Intelligence Test he answered the questions faster than anyone else in the room—and the room was always full. Better than being fast, Matt never failed to come out on top…99 out of 100 on the last test. It would’ve been a perfect score if he hadn’t misread “ark” for “auk” and marked “Seafaring Barn” as his answer. Of course he knew the difference between an auk and an ark. Poor eyesight was the culprit, not lack of knowledge.

                 Matt adjusted the brand-new glasses teetering on his nose. He looked up, he looked right and left, he looked deep. He had no idea where to start.

                 Usually it’s a good idea to start at the beginning, he told himself. If only I had a clue where the beginning began…

                 Stepping up to the unit closest to him, Matt peered through his lenses: Newtonian Physics and What it Means for the Modern Mormon. Next to it, The Great Quantum Theorists: A Pop-Up Adventure. Underneath, Why Marie Curie Well-Deserved the Title ‘Madame’.

                 Okay, so there is a rhyme and a reason. Figures I’d pick the wrong reason to the wrong rhyme.

                 Matt turned around. He was glad he hadn’t strayed too far from the doorway that led into the room. No matter where he went, he always made it a habit to never get lost unless he knew for sure he was in the right spot.

Whoever runs this joint should think about putting up a few YOU ARE HERE maps. Either that or hire someone with sense enough to divide a library into more sections than just “Real Stuff” and “Fake Stuff.”

                 As he made his way across the foyer to the door on the opposite side, Matt decided the dumbfucks who organized the library must have been in cahoots with the ones who dreamt up the Standard Human Intelligence Test. Any idiot with the patience to think out the answers could easily pass that test, and if only a larger percentage of the world’s population could find a way to access even just a sliver of the unused portion of their brains, maybe then the library wouldn’t be so huge.

Or so fucking nauseating.

                 Matt kicked the other door. It swung inward, but it rebounded so fast he didn’t have time to step all the way through before it whacked him on the arm. Not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to piss him off. Growling, he reached back with his left leg and kicked the door shut. Once again, it rebounded and smacked him in the ass.

                 This just isn’t my day. Hell, it’s not my fucking year…my fucking life…

                 Sighing, Matt positioned himself in front of another set of units. The “fake” side was more voluminous than the “real” side. He had a feeling it would be. Not many people wrote non-fiction anymore, unless it was to get rich by exploiting the memory of a loved one drowned by a mega-tsunami or crushed to death when the plane they were riding in was steered into the heart of a skyscraper. No, everyone was like Matt—bursting with a story to tell about someone they never met. And like Matt, everyone managed to get their stories down on paper—from start to finish, polished, proofread, and revised. But unlike Matt, their stories had been published—edited, bound, and shoved into the hands of the masses. All around the world, every voice but his had been heard, and as he stood in front of the shelving units, facing every single one of those screaming voices, he felt very, very insignificant.

                 God, what the hell am I doing here?

                 He thought about racing out of the library and never coming back. He also thought about setting the units on fire as he went. But as tempting as it was, he knew he could never live with the guilt of causing the death of so many ideas…unoriginal and unintelligent as some might have been. Who was he to say whose voice should be silenced?

                 It didn’t work for our good buddy Hitler, so I doubt I could pull it off.

                 Matt had an even stronger reason for not leaving. Doing so would mean incurring the wrath of Simon, who gave him the one ultimatum no one in a solid relationship ever wanted to hear: “If you don’t do something about it, I’m leaving. You and I both know you’re just as good as all the rest—if not better. So get off your ass and find a way to get yourself noticed…or else that’s it. I’m tired of seeing you wasting your talent.”

                 Easy for him to say. He’s had three books published already.

                 In Matt’s view, Simon’s books leaned more toward the unoriginal and unintelligent end of the spectrum. Each was a separate volume of a semi-autobiographical trilogy that explored the trials and tribulations of the homosexual male. Naturally, the first volume was the typical coming out story, full of the angst of accepting one’s true self. The book did earn a five-erection rating in Rimmer magazine, which earned Simon a guest spot on the Ellen DeGeneres show. Ellen promised to have him on again once his second novel was published, but she never did call. One of her assistants sent Simon a letter saying she might have worked him in if Tag the Rapping Basset Hound went into labor, but Matt “accidentally” threw the letter in the trash, and after that, Ellen took a hiatus from her show to embark on an international promotion of her own coming out tale, The Day I Went to the Store and Bought a Can of Tuna.

                 Spite. Jealousy. Envy. Whatever you wanna call it, it’s all the same. It forces people do vicious things—even to the ones they love.

                 It was guilt that drove Matt to the library. Guilt over the fact that not once had Simon ever stopped supporting him. Of course, he never did find the letter, but Matt knew if the situation was reversed his husband would undoubtedly have done the exact same thing.

                 Sighing heavier, Matt walked up to the first shelf of Fake Stuff: The Dreidel and the Swastika: A Finkel and Schwartz Concentration Camp Tale. Rabbi’s Revenge. Room at the Seder. Torah, Torah, Torah. Razing the Bar Mitzvah.

                 Jesus, why do the Jews always have to be so prolific?

                 He skipped forward a few rows: ’Til Daddy Takes the T-Bird Away. The Love Bug: Erotic Tales from the Back Seat. Crank Case. Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Laughing Camaro.

                 “Shit!” he cried out, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. “This place is a friggin’ joke!” 

                 His words caught the attention of a woman with gray hair and fine wrinkles, who stood on a hovering platform in the next row trying to find room for new additions. She lowered the platform, went over to Matt, and asked, “Is there anything I can help you find, sir?”

                 He jumped. “Oh, wow! People actually work here?”

                 “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘people’. These days, I seem to be the only one who cares enough to donate their time to the library.”

                 “You volunteered for this? Without getting paid?”
                 “Proudly! Books are like flowers in a garden. They need constant attention to survive.”

                 “Well, this is an awfully big garden. How many other volunteers are there?”

                 “There used to be several, but I haven’t seen any of them around lately. They must have gotten too bored or too busy.”

                 “So you’re it? Millions upon billions of shallow ideas, and you’re the sole schlub responsible for keeping track of them all?”

                 She smiled. “It’s better than no one keeping track. Now, you obviously came here looking for something, so why don’t you let me help you find it. It’s so rare I have the opportunity to show people around my garden.”

                 Matt nodded. “Yeah, most people don’t like asking for help. It’s like they think it’s a sign of weakness if they need somebody to hold their hand.”

                 “Oh, it’s not that. What I meant was it’s rare anyone ever visits the library anymore.”

                 He laughed but stopped when he saw the old woman wasn’t. “Are you serious? These books stay here on the shelves, day after day, and nobody bothers to read them?”

                 “Sadly, yes. Now that every capable person on the planet has had a book of their own published, they don’t feel it necessary to pay attention to what other people have to say. It’s as if the only voice they care to listen to is their own.”

                 “Which is why their voices all sound alike.”

                 “Perhaps. And how would you describe your voice, Mr.…?”

                 “Webber. Matthew Webber. My voice can only be described as eternally mute.”

                 “Webber…Webber….” She tapped her finger on her lips. “You wouldn’t be the Matthew Webber who wrote The Straight Man’s Guide to Getting a Lesbian in Bed, would you?”

                 “Hardly.”

                 “How about the Matt Webber who penned Stormy River?”

                 “Nope.”

                 “Benjamin’s Promise?”

                 “Uh-uh.”

                 “Getting Away With It?”

                 “No again.”

             “Understanding the Gestation Cycle of the North American Fruit Fly?”

                 “So far your batting average sucks, lady.”

                 “Well, what have you written?”

“Oh, I’ve written a lot—short stories, novels, plays, screenplays, skits…hell, I even turned the life of Idi Amin into a comedic opera.”

                 “So why is it I’ve never heard of you?”

                 “Probably ’cause none of my stuff has ever been published.”

                 “You’ve never had any work published?”

                 “Not a one.”

                 “You are an adult, aren’t you?”

                 “Have you ever seen a prepubescent with gray hair?”

                 “Are you retarded?”

                 “Far, far from it…at least according to my last SHIT.”

                 “Then how is it possible you’ve never published a book?”

                 “That’s what I came here to find out.”

                 Eyes narrowing behind her bifocals, the old woman gave Matt a closer inspection. “Well, I can’t detect any indication of paranormal or extraterrestrial impediments…”

                 “No, I’m just as human as you are.”

                 “What makes you think I’m human?”

                 Matt opened his mouth, but all he could do was leave it hanging. There was no way the doddering old woman could be anything but a flesh and blood homo sapien. But then again, the ability to recognize every single title in a global repository that stretched over two miles seemed well beyond ordinary human capacity. Even for those of superior intelligence.

                 Slowly the woman’s eyes un-narrowed. “Ha! You thought I was serious!”

                 “Hell no, lady, I knew you were messing with me all along.”

             “Too bad. I was hoping yours was one of the few open minds left on this planet.”

                 “My mind’s open, all right. It’s open enough to know that life sucks way too much for there to be more than what’s right in front of our eyes.”

                 She tsk-ed. “And you call herself a writer.”            
                
“No, I call myself a failure.”

“The only way you fail is if you lose faith in the possibilities—even the ones that seem crazy and out of reach. Every writer knows that. Or, at least, every good writer does.”

                 “You think I’m a good writer?”

                 “How can I? I’ve never read anything you’ve written.”

                 “Sure, rub it in.”

                 “It’s not my fault you’re too lazy to send your work out.”

                 Matt’s lip curled. “Laziness has nothing to do with it. I’ll have you know my work has been in more hands than a Baptist minister in a maximum security prison.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem has been trying to get any of those hands to hold onto my work.”

                 “In this day and age? That’s virtually impossible.”

                 “That’s what I used to think. I mean, hell, everybody else on this goddamn world has a spot on your shelves, so I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing wrong.”

                 “And so you came here to find out.”

                 “I was sent here by my husband. He said there was a book I needed to read. He said it would help turn things around.”

                 “I see. What is the name of this great tome of revelation?”

                 “Why Bother?”

                 “Well, if you want me to help you find it, it’s good to know what you’re looking for.”

                 “No, Why Bother? is the name of the book.”

                 “Oh, my, yes!” she chuckled. “Heavens, I should’ve known that! I guess my mind must be tired from all this shelving.”

                 “So you know the book I’m looking for, then? I think it’s written by Gladys McElliott… McAllison…”

                 “McAllister.”

                 “Yeah, that’s it. Gladys McAllister. Where can I find it?”

                 “Certainly not in the fiction section.”

                 “Oh. I wasn’t sure, what with it being a guide to writing fiction and all.”

                 “Guidebooks are always categorized as nonfiction…unless they’re made up, of course.” The old woman turned around. “Follow me, Mr. Webber.”

                 She led him out of the room and across the foyer, past the empty reception desk and beyond the fichus plants that were in desperate need of dusting. She pushed open the swinging door to the Real Stuff wing and allowed Matt to enter ahead of her.

                 “We need to go to the back,” she told him.

                 “The very back?”

                 She nodded.

                 “And I suppose we’re gonna walk, right?”

                 “There’s hardly a need for physical exertion.” She went into an alcove at the side of the door. When she came out, she was pushing a two-seater antigravity tram ahead of her. “This is how we will get to the back.”

                 Matt grinned. “Fucking sweet!”

                 “Yes, it is, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from swearing. Books are very sensitive, you know.”

                 The old woman settled herself on the seat in front of the tram’s steering lever. Once Matt was settled next to her, she pressed the large green button in the center of the lever. With a soft whirr, the tram came to life. She veered it around the first shelving unit and took off down the center aisle at a brisk pace. On each side of the vehicle, books in all shapes and sizes and colors whizzed past. Matt forced himself to face forward, afraid that the fast-moving images would cause his stomach to unload the pancakes and sausage Simon had made for him that morning. Already queasy from being in the presence of so much published work that wasn’t his own, he was sure the library’s caretaker wouldn’t appreciate him soiling her fancy white cart by blowing syrup-coated chunks of Jimmy Dean all over the dash.

                 Just as Matt was about to lose the battle of the barf, the tram slowed to a coast in front of a unit in the back wall. It was significantly smaller than the rest—only four shelves, none of which were packed tight. He tried to catch some of the titles, but most of the words handwritten on the spines were illegible. Being Talented in a Talentless World was one he could definitely make out, as was Ten Reasons Why None of This Shit Really Matters on the shelf below it. On the bottom row, gathered between two pieces of puce poster board, was a title that began with the word Nobody and ended with the words When You’re Gone. That book was propping up a short, digest-sized work entitled, The Meaning of Life.

                 “Are these real?” Matt asked. “I mean, have they actually been published or is this some sort of reference section the library just threw together?”

                 The old woman pursed her lips. “No work of literature is ever ‘thrown together’.”

                 “Not even the autobiography of Paris Hilton?”

                 “There is a reason for every book’s existence, even the ones considered to be fluff.” She pressed the green button again. The engine shut down, leaving the tram hovering beside the wall. “These books are part of the library’s special collection. Each contains certain truths that very few human beings can bring themselves to hear.”

                 “Like how there is no God and that too much sugar turns you into a diabetic lard-ass?”

                 “Exactly.”

                 Sliding off the seat, the old woman walked up to the small unit. “Let’s see, it should be around here somewhere.” She tapped her lips as she scanned the shelves. “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked for help with this section that I’m not sure—aha!”

                 Reaching for the middle of the top shelf, she wrapped her fingers around a large, spiral-bound book and slid it out. With a gentle gust, she blew the dust from the cardstock cover, which contained only the title and the author’s name stenciled in block letters. “Why Bother? by Gladys McAllister,” she said. “My, it has been far too long since I’ve lost myself in the pages of this precious gem! The words are so moving, so inspiring…full of such strong ideas that no reader can walk away from it without learning something new every time!”

                 “Great,” said Matt. “Maybe once I’ve read some of it I’ll feel the same way.”

                 “Oh, but of course. McAllister’s masterpiece is one that must be personally experienced to be appreciated.”

                 “So is there somewhere I can personally experience it in private?”

                 “There’s a reading den right around the corner. Take all the time you need. When you’re finished, press the call button above the desk, and I will come get you.”

“Thanks.” He started to head off but stopped. “Um, there’s one thing I don’t get…”

                 “Yes?”

                 “If this book is so profound and life-changing, why does it look like it was put together in somebody’s basement?”

                 “Because it has never been professionally published.”

                 “I thought every book in the library had been published.”

                 “They have. But I said ‘professionally published’.”

                 “Yeah, okay, I’ve heard of self-publishing before. Print on demand, vanity presses… they’re all a bunch of scams, aren’t they? They’re just a way for some greedy corporation to bleed money out of people by charging them a fortune to have their work in print without helping them market it to the masses.”

                 “True. There are far too many users and abusers in the literary world—which is why a good author must build up enough strength to make sure no one ever fucks him over.”

                 “I thought you said there was no cussing in the library.”

                 “We’re in the special section. These books aren’t nearly as sensitive.”

                 “Sounds like my kind of literature.”

                 “They are. The stories you write are just like the book you hold in your hands, Matthew Webber. They’re special. Unique. They’re not afraid to break convention and go places far beyond the realm of possibility. Your work stands out from the crowd, Matt. And that is why you’ve had such lousy luck getting it published.”

                 “You’re saying the reason no one wants to publish me is because I’m too good?”

                 “Not exactly. There’s a difference between being good and being unique. Think about all the other books you see on these shelves. When you strip them down to their bare bones, can you really distinguish one from the other? Is there really much difference between the spinsters in Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and the women in Danielle Steele’s Sisters? Or can you really tell The Odyssey apart from The Wizard of Oz? For that matter, can you deny the similarities between Paris Hilton’s autobiography and the life story of Mary Magdalene? There’s a reason why every work that is published is just like many that came before it. People crave familiarity. They like being able to walk into a bookstore or a library and see titles and authors that they recognize—even though many authors simply regurgitate the same story over and over and over.”

                 “Yeah,” Matt said, “that’s something I’ve never been able to understand. The writers everybody knows—the ones who pump out a new novel every other month—most of them rehash what people have already read before. So why is it they still have publishing contracts?”

                 “Come now, Matthew, you know as well as I do the publishing business is a business. If familiarity is what the masses are buying, then that’s what they’re going to keep selling.”

                 “And those of us who are unique are totally—”

                 “—fucked, yes.”

                 He handed the book back to its caretaker. “Thanks so much for all your trouble, but after talking with you, I don’t think I need to waste my time reading this.”

                 She smiled. “Perhaps not. But keep it. It’s yours. Take it home with you, and as you continue to write, use it as a reminder of why you write. It will help inspire you to never give up.”

                 “Are you crazy? I can’t just steal a book from a library.”

                 “You can if the author of the book says so.”

                 “Huh?” Matt scrunched his brow. “Wait, you mean…?”

                 “Would you like me to autograph it for you?”

                 “Oh…uh, sure…yeah, that’d be great.” He watched as she slipped an ink pen out of the pocket of her smock and scribbled her name on the inside of the book’s front cover. “But won’t you be upset your book isn’t in the library anymore?”

                 “Please! You’re doing me a favor by taking it away from all of these copycats. I’d rather my work were given a good home where someone will appreciate it than have it buried at the bottom of a pile of dead trees. Besides, I have another copy. I can restock it anytime I want,” clicking her pen, she passed the book back to Matt, “if I want.”

                 “Okay…if you’re sure…” He offered the old woman his hand. “Thank you again for all your help. You’ve inspired me more than you’ll ever know.”

                 “Inspiration comes from within, Matt,” she said, shaking his hand. “People don’t give you inspiration—they simply remind you of it. Now, would you like a ride back to the foyer?”

                 He shook his head. “Nah. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll walk.”                                                                                            

                 “By all means. You take care of yourself, now.”                                                              

                  With one last smile, the woman climbed into the tram, started the engine, and tore off. Her book tucked under his arm, Matt strode down the center aisle, his head high and his stomach at peace as he breezed past the endless, overstuffed shelves of voices. Far above the taunting din, he could finally hear his own.