Automatic Writing

(Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)

Cuthers recently accosted me at the club all-a-froth with news he evidently felt couldn't wait until our scheduled meeting the next morning. I had laid down ground rules about approaching me at the club as I could barely afford its fees now I was covering his debts so to my mind a fellow should be allowed to enjoy a few stiff drinks uninterrupted by frivolity.

His big news was that he had written something new. I sank lower into the Chesterfield as he handed me a surprisingly thick manuscript. My heart sank lower still at the thought of how much it would cost to publish and so I rallied my remaining sober grey matter to protest that I couldn't possibly stretch myself further. He had beamed at me like the completely naïve idiot he is and coyly requested I read at least some of it before passing judgement. I had waved him away and the cheerful manner in which he acquiesced almost put me in a good mood.

Since I had nothing better to do than get myself deeper in the hole with Smythe's little black book of members' debts, I grudgingly began to read my hapless client's latest opus. To my utter astonishment it wasn't the sort of low-witted drivel he had previously turned in. I looked at my drink suspiciously then peered closely at the words on the page again. No amount of liquor could turn his boorish bilge into perfect prose. I read on, becoming engrossed in the plot. It was a sort of detective story, of the ilk popularised by Mr Conan Doyle. The further I read, the more I swear my eyes bulged at the thought of the commercial potential of the manuscript, although that could have also been the drink. If Cuthers could keep this sort of quality up I'd be back in the black in no time.

The next day I wasted no time arranging for the miraculous tale to be printed up as a chapbook. The sooner I could get some coins flowing in my direction the better, particularly as I had to pawn my camera apparatus to pay the printer. Once this was done I set about tracking down the man himself. Cuthers had taken to hanging around a sordid address in Covent Garden of late so I checked there first.
The door was answered by an old lady wearing an improbably voluminous wig. It was jet black and looked like someone had performed a literal murder of crows and deposited their corpses on her head. It took her several increasingly peevish greetings to draw my attention away from the unfortunate arrangement.

It transpired that she was one of the many spiritualists who are unironically haunting the city at present. I'll have no truck with such superstitious nonsense, but I was not in the least surprised to find Cuthers in its orbit. I was heartened to find him sitting at the dining table, leafing through another manuscript. I eagerly requested a look at it, and skimmed through the first few pages while he regarded me smugly. I could forgive his arrogance because once again he had come up with a cracking read. I looked at him in amazement. Had some cork of stupidity popped within his brain allowing a hitherto unseen genius to flow? Whatever it was, if he could keep it up I'd be rolling in cash by the end of the month.

My good mood carried me well into the afternoon, at which juncture I reasoned I'd done all I could for the day and poured myself the first of several celebratory brandies. I could give my bank manager the good news in the morning.

The next day however I was woken by a fearful pounding both within and without my skull. The inner discordance was not wholly unexpected given a tendency to pour ever larger measures of brandy until the action itself becomes untenable. The outer distraction was something new. 
I stuffed my still-suited arms into the sleeves of my dressing gown, suddenly aware that I just woken fully clothed in my armchair. Without further considering whether this ensemble looked deranged, I answered the door, which was the source of the infernal hammering.

A smartly dressed gentleman wearing black leather gloves enquired as to my name, and upon confirmation handed me a sealed envelope and bid me good day. Mystified, I retired indoors in search of my letter opener. 

My fortunes, it seemed, had turned again and quite abruptly too. The letter was from a firm of solicitors advising me to cease publishing the works of their client, one Mr Conan-Doyle, with immediate effect or I would very quickly find myself in the dock and facing considerable damages.
Cuthers, I thought, what have you done? My temples throbbed and I imagined strangling my erstwhile saviour, but it only helped a little. 

It seems Cuthers is something of an idiot savant, with the emphasis very much on the idiot part. The batty old woman in Covent Garden has put the notion in his head that his words are coming from beyond death's veil, whereas in reality he's recalling in their entirety all of the Sherlock Holmes stories he's read. It's incredible really. I have wracked my brains for any use I can make of this talent, but nothing springs to mind. The whole point of writing stories down is that it saves everyone the bother of having to remember them. At best it's a talent worthy of an intellectual circus sideshow, with the principal problem being that no such operation exists. 

I was almost resigned to burning the entire consignment, but paused to consider the man whose works Cuthers had so expertly cribbed. Conan-Doyle was not a young man. I had to consider the feasibility of my gifted fool's efforts in a market where the illustrious author no longer had a stall. Perhaps I should put Cuthers to work at the task now, while he still had enthusiasm for the idea. With a little coaching it surely couldn't be too much of a stretch to have him churn out stories that differ in the odd detail here and there, just enough to fool the casual reader into thinking they were reading something new? And with Conan-Doyle out of the picture, there would be nothing stopping us from inserting Sherlock himself into the tales. I could even be as bold as to suggest the man himself had authored them from the other side. I could envision a bold future in which death is no barrier to productivity and, more importantly, I would become disgustingly wealthy.