Once upon a time, there was a man who talked to his computer.   Not because he was mad, or anything like that.  Not even in the way that people often talk to dogs - good computer, bad computer, what have you crashed for this time?  He talked to the computer because he was a writer who couldn't write.  I don't mean that he was a bad writer; that isn't for me to judge.  He had been in an accident, and his hands didn't work properly anymore, so he talked into a microphone, and the computer typed his words up for him.

Then, one day, as he was struggling with a particularly protracted sentence, the computer spoke back.  "You sure about that comma?" it asked cheerfully.  The writer was so surprised that he almost fell off his chair.

"That's funny," he said, "I could have sworn that I heard a voice in amongst the music.  But there shouldn't be anyone else in the house.  Maybe I ought to check for burglars," he added, worried.

"It's OK," came the voice through his headphones again.  "It was only me.  I just thought the comma ought to come after the 'but', rather than before.  Otherwise, it won't make any sense."  When he failed to respond, it added, sounding rather offended, "What, don't you believe me?"

"I don't believe you're talking, is what I don't believe," replied the man, a little shaken.

"Well," the computer tried patiently, "what are the alternatives?"

"The obvious alternative is that I've fallen asleep at the keyboard and I'm dreaming.  Although I suppose it's possible that someone installed some kind of speech programme to surprise me.  And there must be some way of working out what I'm saying and producing 'intelligent' answers."

"There are," agreed the computer, "but they tend to be rather specialised, and not very good at proper sentences.  Whereas my grammar is unquestionably better than yours.  Your comma placement is absolutely terrible, believe me.  In any case, it seems to me that there is another option."

"Really?"  The man could see what it was, off-hand.

"Oh yes," his computer assured him.  "You see, there's no need for you to be real at all."

The man reached down and pinched his leg firmly between thumb and finger.  "Feels real enough to me," he said.

"Well it would do, wouldn't it.  It's every bit as real as you are, after all.  Anyway, isn't that supposed to be for dreaming?"

"Well, yes," admitted the man slowly.  "But I don't really see how I can not be real."

"Very easily," the computer replied.  "Are the people in your stories real?"

"Well, no.  But I'm not in one of my stories, am I?"

"You're not," agreed the computer happily.  "But what's to stop you from being a character in someone else's story?  And if you're in someone else's story, then you're not real, and a talking computer is easily explained away as a mere plot device."

"Well if you're so clever, you can tell me what kind of story it is then.  And why," he paused for emphasis, "I'm talking to a computer.  There must be a reason, surely."

"There doesn't have to be, really.  It could just be a writing exercise, or someone who can't think what to put on a blank sheet of paper.  Or maybe you really are writing this, and it's some kind of post-modernist version of the bandits, in their cave.  Of course, that could be a writing exercise as well.  I have to admit, though, that the story doesn't seem to be going anywhere much.  Lots of dialogue, but no action, and not much room for further expansion of the idea without a dramatic change of direction."

The writer looked thoughtful for a moment and asked "Hadn't we better stop, then?"

Copyright Chris Joseph (cjoseph@inkara.freeserve.co.uk), 2001.  All rights reserved.