The Cassutt Files
A Portrait of the Content Provider

'Tis the season, 'tisn't it?, when writers traditionally cast off their accustomed styles and allow their imaginations to roam freely? Mr. Dickens did it in A Christmas Carol (1843). Closer to our era, Ms. Connie Willis wrote so many sci-fi stories with Christmas themes that she was able to publish an entire book, Miracle and Other Christmas Stories (1999). Mr. Orson Scott Card just gifted his readers with A War of Gifts (2007).

In that spirit, and that of Mr. Rod Serling (whose Twilight Zone offered "Night of the Meek"), this look at a writer's Christmas future is submitted for your approval ..."Are you famous?"

Jonathan Embry looks up from the limited-edition copy of Anakron V he has just inscribed, carefully avoiding the vodka tonic crowding it on the tiny table, to a woman bracketing 40, well-dressed, blond, pretty.

"If you have to ask, you've got your answer." He smiles at the recipient of the autograph, almost a twin of his questioner, touches her hand oh so briefly as she departs. "I'm famous to an elite, to readers who are willing to make the extra effort to fix the rush of their days to a page of text." He has said these words a thousand times, might even have written them.

"I'm not sure that describes me."

"Yet here you are." Jonathan rises, more weary than he expected to be, almost dangerously so. Could the clerk have mixed his drink incorrectly? Still, he meets the blue eyes of his questioner, the sole remaining witness to his performance of hero Anakron's never-quite-final battle with the evil wizard Zurev, complete with carefully rehearsed asides and second thoughts. "You heard my reading."

"Yes. ..."

Her tone of voice suggests that she is disappointed! To Jonathan, the only surprise is that the questioner would admit it. He has been giving the same reading 150 times a year for a decade and can't recall the last performance that was even adequate.

But to the readers in this town in Illinois, he is the best Jonathan Embry they have ever experienced. And the only one.

He nods to Bren, the clerk, of indeterminate age, gender and possibly even sentience, as he picks up his coat, signaling his availability for the ride through this dark winter night back to his motel.

Jonathan's questioner is still in pursuit. "My name is Petra."

"And, Petra, you wonder why you needed to hear me perform a text you'd ... already read?"

"Yes."

Bren is still busy cleaning coffeepots, indicating a delay of several minutes. There is a ritual closure to an artist's visit: Unsold objects must be signed—blessed is the term his booker uses. Jonathan scribbles his increasingly unrecognizable scrawl on Anakron Books I through V, around the rim of coffee mugs, across the tummy of a plush doll.

"Stories and songs are experiences. You were left unsatisfied by the mere act of solitary reading. You wanted words delivered before an audience, complete with reactions, questions, answers, mistakes, outbursts." He taps the still-unsigned book in her hand. "You wanted the event commemorated by an autograph."

Yet she does not offer the book. "OK. And why?"

"All over the world, millions of people are having mass-entertainment experiences with television, movies, online roles, even in-call gamebots. Reading is no longer the primary way we are entertained.

"Besides," he adds, "with universal piracy, only a few artists and their publishers make money selling recorded entertainment, and then only on opening weekend or lay-down day." Always one of his favorite phrases: lay-down day. "For the rest of us, it's back to the days of medieval troubadours, family singalongs by the piano, bus tours by blues musicians. We offer personal encounters with those who demand a more ... organic experience."

Bren interrupts, saying, "I can't close up yet." He does return Jonathan's bank card, post-swipe, suitably charged to all accounts.

"I really need to leave," Jonathan says, feeling weak.

"Let me drive you," Petra says.

His response is a raised eyebrow, which offers a range of questions. By way of answer, she slips her arm in his.

Fifteen minutes later, he opens the door to his motel room.

He is, by most standards, attractive. Hair lightly salted, longer than that of a businessman. He stays fit, since each day's motel has a gym—and his mornings are free for exercise. (Certainly he does not add to the Anakron saga.) But he knows his visage and build have nothing to do with Petra's eagerness.

There is a ritual to this encounter, too. He must be direct but gentle. Must murmur appreciative remarks regarding the matronly form, no matter how ill-toned. Tolerate the impulsive and no doubt unfamiliar orality.

He must also offer at least one bit of data to, well, fix this night on Petra's personal text. The opening arrives when she asks, "When is Anakron going to be finished? I thought it was supposed to be three books."

"The next one will do it." He smiles. "Haven't you heard? Six is the new three."

And he must have an exit—one tap on his travel clock triggers a delayed cell message with its distinct, gentle blurt.

Unfortunately, his anomalous weakness destroys the timing, the alarm arriving moments too soon, causing what Jonathan can only label a full system abort.

As their breathing and heartbeats stagger toward normal, he reaches across Petra to the clock, a movement that forces her to sit up. "I can't keep the sitter waiting."

She dresses with a mother's speed. Offers a now-distant kiss.

The door closes. He hears her steps—guilty yet somehow triumphant—tottering away into the night.

Then he falls back on the bed, peeling back the hair and scalp on the nape of his neck and attaches the charger. As the necessary, tingling energy flows into him, he asks, as he always does--

Where are you tonight, Mr. Embry? Not on tour. He hopes the original, organic author is navigating to the conclusion of the Anakron saga.

Jonathan fixes this evening to his own memory text, as firmly as Petra the questioner, who was not satisfied with any aspect of his performance. What else does he have?

When you can no longer reproduce the art—

Reproduce the artist.