Marcel P

I don’t remember what it I was like when I was 19. I know that things felt easier. I was happier. Mundane tasks like brushing my teeth or finding a matching pair of socks didn’t feel like an exhaustive chore back then. The hope and curiosity that I had then is like a fading memory now. I know it existed but I don’t remember how it sat in my body. Nor do I remember how I was able to feel relaxed because of it and not in a constant state of disarray and panic. In the 12 years since then, hope has become naive and delusional. Everything was lighter when I was 19— back before it all went awry. I have never had any real interest in suicide. As painful as life was, I had seen those lighter days before and knew the potential of tomorrow. There were also too many questions that I needed answered. How would technology progress? How would society shift within a full life? How does everyone’s story unintentionally wrap up? I had been asking questions my whole life. Sometimes I would find answers but often I would find more questions. I used therapy as a guide to seeking answers about myself. Questions that I never wanted answered and never wanted revealed. It wasn’t until after the first few months with Dr. Trombley that I realized that those maybe lifelong questions. Therapy did bring some relief but it was almost always followed with the most desolate form of nihilism that my brain could muster. Going to a shrink has always been met with decided eyes in my family. My mother’s brother, Edward, had seen a psychologist once— we never talked about it. He was 12 years younger than my mother and he was a lawyer, like all of her siblings. I didn’t know much about his life other than that he is unmarried and was seeing a psychologist. Back then, we use to chat through video calls. I would be ushered over to exchange pleasantries, and they were quite brief as I only spoke in Aramaic to my mom’s side of the family. My vocabulary was limited to “How are you doing?” “How is the weather in Erbil?” “Hope you can come visit soon, God willing.” My Aramaic was broken, as it bared little use in the United States. I would use it around the house growing up, with my mother, sister and grandparents. I would use it during Catechism on Saturdays but I never knew anyone else that spoke it. Not at school. Not even in any of the Arabic grocery markets we would often frequent. I haven’t used it in the years since I’ve moved to Spokane. I haven’t had any reason to keep up. I’d figure that language is a muscle memory, that it would always be with me regardless of application. Dr. Trombley’s office never felt clinical to me. The waiting area was warmly lit by two lamps, both on opposite sides of a white linen couch. My feet sat above a checkered rug masking the grey carpet that seemingly came with the rented office space. I always dressed up for Dr. Trombley— not that I had any infatuation with her but because perception has played a big part in my life for as long as I could remember. Today, I decided on a white rugby polo that was tucked into pleated, navy slacks. I readjusted my legs a few times before the office door began to open. “Abe”, Dr. Trombley softly gestured, “come on back.” Her office was as comforting as the waiting room. The wall was scattered with a gallery of eclectic artwork. A couple of pieces were painted but the rest were framed prints that complimented the burnt orange loveseat that sat in the back of the room. We began our session with our usual arbitrary exchanges: the weather, traffic, and how “busy” our weekends were. These would go on for the first 10 to 15 minutes of a given session. We talked about hitting the two year mark at my job, as a research assistant in the physics department at Gonzaga University. I always appreciated these introductory conversations as it made things less formal and more conversational. It was an easier way to segue into more momentous matters. “Now”, she folded one leg over the other. “How are you preparing for the trip back home?” I looked down at my legs to collect my thoughts, “I think I am ready. I have finally found a footing here for the last two years. Things are stable with work and with my finances.” Dr. Trombley leaned back. “This is a really big moment for you. It is important to recognize that it will be overwhelming to see your mother and sister after all this time. It does seem like there has been a slow build of communication with one another, which is great.” She took off her glasses and buried them into her hands, “I just want you to know that it will be a long two weeks. It will re-open wounds. You will be seeing familiar streets. Familiar grocers. Beaches. Cross-streets, even.” “I know”, I said unconvincingly. “I do see it as an opportunity to set a baseline test of my limitations.” She returned a smile. “And I am sure you’ll find a way to quantitively measure that baseline.” This was the light banter that Dr. Trombley earned my trust with. “Now”, she repeated. I knew the question was coming. “The Freeman Institute”, she said, “I really need to know if you’re considering it or not. You already know where I stand on it but if you are heading back to California, not to just visit family, then I would need to know. Personal bias aside, it would significantly impact your treatment plan.” I didn’t know how to start the lie. I folded my hands across my lap and looked down at them. “I was considering it but I don’t think I have enough time or mental preparation for the procedure and recovery itself. It was always more hypothetical than actual.” Lie. “So there’s nothing for me to worry about, Abe?” “Nope”, I smiled. Lie. I wasn’t confident in my selling of the lie based off of Dr. Trombley’s expressionless gaze.

WRITE YOUR STORY STATEMENT: Returning to his California hometown under the guise of reconciliation, 32-year old Abraham is driven home by a deeper intent. Haunted by a calamitous accident from his past, Abraham journeys to The Freeman Institute for a radical and contentious procedure that promises to replace the source of his struggles with Artificial Intelligence. The narrative delves into the consequences of cultural expectations as Abraham reflects on how his upbringing has gotten him to this point. The novel touches on Abraham's experiences as an Assyrian-American and how the weight of his identity has played a role in his demise. ANTAGONIST: Like other literary fiction, the antagonist, or source of tension, is both internal and cultural. The nearly impossible and unreachable cultural expectations that are placed on children of immigrants, specifically in Eastern cultures, to succeed and to "make something" from the sacrifices of their parents is at the forefront of this novel. It is what influences Abraham into being his own antagonist. BREAKOUT TITLE: The Sound of Metal The Sound of Fire TWO COMPARABLES FOR YOUR NOVEL: The Idiot by Elif Batuman A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara Both The Idiot and A Little Life are comparables, not necessarily in terms of thematic events but rather with the target demographic and audience. My novel also falls into the category of literary fiction and I think will reach similar audiences. The Idiot tells a coming-of-age story of Selin, daughter of Turkish immigrants as she navigates Harvard in the 90s. In a way, this novel is an inverse of my own. Selin isn't plagued with insurmountable expectations that Abraham is, even though they both arrive from similar regions. With A Little Life, the structure of the novel and the room for reflection and for lore/backstory was an inspiration for my novel. Slowly revealing more about the protagonist through the lens of the past is vital in my novel. HOOK LINE WITH CONFLICT: Haunted by a tragic past, a man seeks to replace the source of his struggles with Artificial Intelligence. THE CONDITION FOR INNER CONFLICT YOUR PROTAGONIST WILL HAVE: This is essentially the root of the story. It is a cautionary tale of what it means to succumb to the expectations that were instilled in you since youth. Specifically the inter turmoil of wanting to meet the expectations that are expected in a middle eastern culture. Trying to fulfill those expectations takes Abraham to his rock bottom. The novel is set after the fact when he has to pick up the pieces while dealing with the despair and depression that his "rock bottom" has brought along. The secondary conflict, the vessel in the novel, is the easy way out solutions that are available to curb/rid of that pain and anguish that Abraham carries. Will implanting AI to nullify suffering work? Is it worth it to feel nothing at all? SKETCH OUT THE SETTING IN DETAIL: The setting here is interesting in the sense that it is almost a homecoming story for Abraham. The novel starts off with him in his new home in Washington. He ventures back home to California. Throughout the novel, the audience will see what Abraham's upbringing in his hometown looks like. This will later be contrasted with his revisitation after much turmoil, despair, and furtiveness. The latter half of the story takes place in the sterile environment of The Freeman institute.