What follows are the ten entries from a journal that was found in the battered case of a used Gibson J-45 acoustic guitar with a broken neck at a pawn shop in Santa Monica.
June 23, 2012
Today we borrowed Christo’s car so we could get out of the city for a little while. You’ve been so stressed out. I wanted to do something that would take your mind off things. We brought half a box of wine and stopped at a little farmer’s market where we bought some cheese we couldn’t afford and a baguette that was still warm from the oven. You just kept driving and turning down random roads until we ended up on a dirt track in the countryside. I made you pull off and we found a spot in a field under a big shady tree. I spread out the sleeping bag I’ve had since I was ten and we made love then ate all the cheese and drank most of the wine. I made you fall over laughing when I pranced back through the tall grass like Pepé Le Pew after taking a wee. You pulled out your guitar and played a new song you were working on, and it was so beautiful. I cried. You said it was for me and I cried more. We fell asleep and woke up when a noisy bunch of crows (yeah I know it’s called a murder but I refuse) roosted in the branches above us. The sun was going down and we had to race to get back to the city so Christo could have his car to get to work. It was such a good day.
August 17, 2012
You played in the square this afternoon and had a pretty good crowd after a couple of hours. You broke a couple of strings and cursed your old guitar. I wish I could get you a new one. But people loved your songs and it wasn’t just the tourist nobs who’ll stop and watch a sad clown show. I spotted a couple of locals. One even dropped a couple of bills in your case. I’m so proud of you for trying. I know how hard it is for you to put yourself out there, but your voice was so strong. I was like, fuck yeah! Even when no one’s listening, somebody’s always listening. You’re snoring softly beside me in this room barely big enough for our double bed. Hopefully, we can get our own place one day. It’s okay for now though. I’ve got to get some sleep. Early shift tomorrow.
November 9, 2013
We fought today and it was really ugly. I’m sitting up waiting for you to come back, afraid you won’t. I know you’re stressed but I hate when you take it out on me. You’ve been working a construction job for the past few months so you could buy that fancy Gibson J-45 you drool over in the shop on Everly. I’m not sure how anything that doesn’t drive you across town should cost $3500 but you said I don’t get it. I guess I don’t. I didn’t tell you tonight because I’m too stubborn, but when you were playing it in the kitchen it sounded amazing, like you, but bigger and richer and like, more you. I’m sorry I called you a fucking selfish idiot. I was mad but I really love you and I want you to be happy. If an expensive guitar makes you happy, I can live with that (even though it’s dumb).
February 1, 2013
I’m too wired to sleep. You killed tonight! All day I was a nervous wreck, but the minute you stepped up to the mic and started singing, I knew you were going to kill it and you did. It was your first time doing a proper show in a proper club. You told me not to get too excited because you were just opening, but after tonight I think that’s going to change. The chubby club owner who kept staring at my tits seemed pretty jazzed to have you headline next month. I wanted to celebrate when we got home, but you had to go to sleep because you’ve got to be at the job site by 6:30 tomorrow morning. I think we’re on our way. I don’t want to jinx it by saying it out loud, but the way the crowd responded tonight, it was electric. I wonder if you even enjoyed it though. You just kept saying all the things you fucked up. I love you so much and I was so proud to hear my song. You didn’t have to look at me when you sang it, but you did. I’ll never forget that.
May 15, 2013
It’s been a long time since I wrote anything here. Just too much happening. Where to start? We got our own place finally and that’s been great. It’s not big, but it’s ours and we don’t have to a share a bathroom with Christo. You’re away again and I’m trying to get used to that. I know I can’t go with you all the time, but I wish I could. I know traveling is the only way you can earn money doing music. I console myself with the fact that you don’t come home every night sore all over and too tired to do anything but take a shower and lay down. But I miss you a lot. Before you left this morning, we cooked together. I threw out the old pots and pans we got from the garage sale a couple of years ago. We both got off a little too much on the fact that nothing stuck to the new ones. You talked about getting a van so you don’t have to rent a car when you tour and you’d have more room for other gear you’ll have to bring along when you bring on some other players. My days are long working in the shop and longer on the days I know I won’t have you to come home to. At least when we FaceTime at night it’s almost like I’m there with you.
September 5, 2013
This journal is dumb. I don’t know why I even try to pretend to keep it. I guess it’s like mom says, it’s a record of all the things I’d forget otherwise. When I read my previous entries, I realized I’m always writing to you. Weird. Maybe it’s not my journal at all, but a long letter I’ll never send to you. I feel like you’re so far away, a letter is about the only way to communicate. Oh well, I’ll continue to keep the record of our lives here. You got a record deal! Just like that. Eighteen months after your first official gig. You were excited but tried to be all, no-big-deal about it. It doesn’t mean anything anymore you said, but it kind of does, right? I mean they gave you a real check as an advance. $150,000! That’s more money than we made combined for the past five years of hustling. I’m writing this entry from the couch of our new condo overlooking the park. Everything is so new and shiny. You’ll be away for almost two months this time. That’s longer than you’ve ever been away because the producer you’re working with on the album insists you work in his studio in Nashville without any distractions. I hope I can visit at some point, but there’s a lot to do around here in the meantime fixing the place up so it feels like home. Like us. There’s new furniture coming next week.
December 24, 2013
It’s our first Christmas in our new place. We got a tree together last night and it felt a little like old times except we didn’t have to wait until Christmas eve to get a last-minute bargain a Charlie Brown tree. The guy at the tree lot recognized you and acted all dopey asking for about a hundred selfies. After that, we were stuck for another thirty minutes because people kept coming up. I watch you in these moments and I’m proud of you. We used to talk about how famous people are such tools. But now you kind of are one and you’re not a tool. You’re kind and patient. But it’s a drag. I had a roast in the oven and it got too done. We chewed on it for about an hour before chucking it and ordering Thai food. You gave me my present early and it took my breath away. I’ve never had real diamond earrings. They’re massive and I feel like such a sexy bitch in them which is kind of terrible too but that’s okay. You remind me all the time where we came from and that it’s okay to enjoy the money. I got you an expensive turn table that your producer recommended and a couple of Beatles albums that seemed way too expensive. I’m trying to find things to do with my days to feel worthy of all this. I’m not having much luck. I miss working with you, making flyers and social media posts but the label has people for all that now. I hope you’ll like my gift. Maybe it will ease the pain of having both our families come visit over the next few days.
February 6, 2014
Someone picked out clothes for us to wear. Yeah, that’s where we are these days. Your manager saw the dress I bought and the suit I’d picked out for you and said it was too simple. He called in a stylist who brought in a rack full of clothes. I know the Grammy’s are the biggest deal but it’s not like I picked out a burlap sack to wear. There are so many strangers around us these days and more always waiting for their chance to get in and get close to you. I kind of miss the condo off the park. It was small but I had picked out everything myself and it felt like home. This new place is so big it’s hard to find a place to be cozy. Plus, there’s always someone delivering something or installing something or just waiting for us to dirty some dishes so they can clean them. There were a couple of girls hanging out by the back gate all night. I watched them through the security camera. They went through our garbage. Everyone thinks you’ll win tonight. You don’t really talk about it. You’ve been spending more and more time in the studio that’s in whole separate building behind the house across the garden. When I went in the other day, you were surrounded by open boxes with new recording gear strewn all over the floor. I asked if you were going to start writing again and you just looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. I interpreted it as some mixture of fear, sadness, and indignation. I turned and left you to it. You came to bed sometime in the wee hours and spooned me. We slept until late morning, a luxury we used to only get on Saturdays.  Â
January 5, 2016
It’s been almost two years since I wrote in this journal. I’d almost forgotten about it until it fell out of a crate of old clothes my assistant was moving so the cabinet maker could reconfigure my walk-in closet. I’m sitting in the garden right now enjoying the sun and looking over at the pool that needs cleaning. I need to have Shareen call the pool guy. Last night I brought up the baby conversation again and again you deflected. You said you’re at your peak right now and can’t afford to lose focus. You suggested I take a trip with some friends. You always say that. When I tell you I don’t have any real friends anymore, you tell me I should pursue something that brings me joy. It’s a kind thing to say and also a way to completely shut me down. I never had to pursue joy before. I don’t think I ever thought about it. We lived and we struggled like people do. Some days were shit and some days were good. It was simple. I miss our Saturday nights before. A couple pints of Ben & Jerry’s on the futon as we watched the next Nicholas Cage movie in our quest to summit his entire career chronologically. We never came close to finishing and the way he’s going we’ll never catch up. Besides, my nutritionist and your trainer would never allow a pint of ice cream. I don’t know why I want a baby. It feels sad that I do but even sadder if I give up on the idea. I wish we could just take a week together and be somewhere quiet but that’s not going to happen. This weekend it’s a party on a big stupid boat or something. I can’t even get a shared eye roll from you these days when we go to these things.
December 29, 2017
This is the last time I’ll write here. Maybe I’ll leave the journal as a parting gift for you. All I wrote about was you anyway. How fucking sad is that? Last night when I was packing up my last few things, I found it and read the nine entries. That’s all we lasted, 5 years, 6 months, 3 days, and 9 journal entries. We were never married because we were too modern for such things so there won’t be a divorce. There won’t be a settlement. All this shit belongs to you and honestly, you trying to give any amount to me just makes me sad, like it’s some kind of consolation prize. Thanks for playing! I’ll of course take enough to make a new life but I have no idea what that life will be. All I know is it won’t be here and it won’t require an army of people to keep it going. Maybe I’ll open up a little dress shop or something. I’m going to go stay with my mom for a while and then decide. I know you’re not happy and maybe you don’t even know how to be happy but I hope you’ll at least enjoy your music again now that I’m gone. I hope you won’t be a cliché and marry some swimsuit model and go into rehab eight times. I think I’ll tuck this journal into the case of your old Gibson J-45. Maybe one day when you’re feeling nostalgic and tired of your climate-controlled room full of guitars you’ll crack open the case and you’ll remember. God, I loved you.
The Story Behind the Story
Writing this story was a bit of an experiment. It’s unusual to write primarily from the second-person point of view. It’s a voice mostly reserved for letters and birthday cards or advertisements when a company is trying to pretend they know us to sell us something. I wanted to explore how a person might be defined by the near-absence of themselves in the telling of a story.
I also wanted to create an O’Henry-like fable about the pursuit of wealth and all the trappings that come with it— trappings being the operative word. I’m still not sure what to think of the story. It’s odd and sad and echoes with the clanking chains of some of the ghosts that reside in my attic.
As a curious side note, I thought you might be interested to know how I used ChatGPT as a helper for this one. I’m fairly useless when it comes to dates and many abstract math operations. I can do it, but it’s unnecessarily taxing for me. Here’s how I cheated. I wrote the ten journal entries for the story using three asterisks to divide them. I then dumped the entire story into ChatGPT and asked it to come up with dates for each of the entries that accurately reflect the overall timeline of the story and the specific events referenced in each entry, like Christmas and the Grammys. In four seconds it returned a summary of each journal entry with perfectly corresponding dates. Pretty nifty.
Thoughts?
Did the story as a series of diary entries take you in? What kind of picture did you develop of the narrator? If you’re a writer, have you ever explored a second-person point of view? What kind of experiments have you done with AI and generative text?
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for being here and supporting my work.
I feel bamboozled! I thought it was a real diary up until near the end when it worked out too well. Well done. Strong voice!
Great story, Ben. And I like the ideas for using ChatGPT as well as the structure in general.
PS Hope your work week went well!