The Writer Virus

The Writer Virus
A story by Royce Emley

Last year I caught a little known or understood virus called the writer virus. It comes in several strains. There’s the word virus that compels you to write. The book virus that makes you read and there may be others. The very first symptom I had, made me write compulsively. It then made me think I was a writer. I wrote all kinds of things; newspaper,magazine articles; a play; poetry; and even a column. And stranger yet, some got published.

This was totally out of character for me. I had been an artist all my life and had selected an art career so I would not have to write and put down in words what I did or how; with art you let the art speak for itself.

Now I found myself writing on every piece of blank paper that I found. When my brain tired, I would read books. I started staying up all night writing, upsetting my wife . Since I would not come to bed she in turn sent me to her doctor. He prescribed Viagra, which changed nothing. I still stayed up all night writing, except now I wrote naked.

Then I couldn’t walk by a bookstore without going in and buying not just one but two or more books. If I looked at a blank wall in my house I imagined it lined with bookcases filled with books. I started to read all night in bed.
My wife sent me back to the doctor. He tried two new approaches - taking away my library card and my reading glasses.

I have a conspiracy theory. I think an un-scrupulous mad publisher made a deal with an author who was writing a book about bioengineering and promised to publish his book if he provided a re-engineered virus that compelled people to read and write so that when you stuck your nose in one you got the virus.

You think that’s a bit far-fetched, not today. The virus is out there millions are already affected. Look around you, it has manifested differently in each person it has attacked.

Some people are moved to spray graffiti on walls; others write on little yellow sticky pads and paste them everywhere.

In Washington it’s rampant. Look, for example, at the guy who wrote the tax code, he has the virus bad.

The people who write the forms and rules. Even the guy who makes the No Parking signs for Pennsylvania Ave. has it. People from all walks of life are are showing signs of the virus all around you.

People may think we’re a paperless society, yes, but now we have become a word society. Have you noticed in the mornings some people have to read every word on every page of the morning paper before they let you see any of it?
{My wife took that comment personally.}

Words dominate us, they show up carved into benches as decorations on cakes, even as text messages on phones.

There is the exception however and that is a place that the virus has not penetrated, it’s our schools. Children must have immunity to the virus. If I could only figure out the antidote that keeps them from catching it.

I'm now adicted to alphabet soup, do crossword puzzles, carry a book with me wherever I go, if not I feel inadequate. I was never known for writing letters just ask my mother, but now it makes me write letters to newspaper editors, replies to junk mail and credit card companies. Writing and reading is consuming my life and I need help.

I spent a lot of time and thought on overcoming my affliction. I first tried an ink patch on my arm, that I made myself. I talked to writers who said they had it under control with writers block. I checked with the drug store but all they had was sun block, which made my writing hand turn yellow.
A friend suggested reading the Bible, after reading it I still needed more. I even formed an anonymous writers group but after the meeting I realized I had no way of contacting them since we addressed each other by our noms de plume.

The guilt of spending every waking hour writing has been overbearing . The knowledge that I have been set upon the world to drive you crazy with my words scares even me. As a result, I have condemned myself to spend 20 hr. a week grant writing, for non-profit groups as a community service sentence, with the hope that, like a convict, I might become rehabilitated and change my ways.

Then, as I was about to give in, a writer sent me a solution. He told me to send in all those pieces I had written to editors and publishers. They in turn would then send me rejection letters and these would help build up my immunity to writing. I asked him to fax me some he had but they didn’t help.

It is time I stopped; my wife is asleep, I had better go to bed. If hopes and dreams are its cause and effect, then I will learn to live with my affliction. If I make enough marks on every piece of paper I see, then someday I may be remembered if not for what I wrote but by the way I gallantly fought with words and ideas this dreadful disease. If however you are reading this in print, then you will know I lost the battle and have become a writer, a victim of the virus. Truth beknown I love being a writer, so read one of my books I guarantee it will have the virus in it and it will force you to join us in the land of rhyme. God help us all.