“The Content Writer” // The Emerson Review

*This story was originally published in The Emerson Review, Issue 49

Act I

“I shall request a short black coffee with a splash of skimm’d milk,” Shakespeare said.

“Sure. That’ll be £2.10, sir.”

Shakespeare presented the barista with his debit card.

The barista ran it. And then ran it once more, frowning. “Your card was declined,” he whisper’d, handing it back to The Bard.

Cursing und’r his breath, Shakespeare poured his shrapnel on the countertop. To his chagrin, there wast not a quid in sight. With the gall of a cosset, he pushed the silvers into groupings. Behind him, a patron uttered a sigh of impatience, sending a tremor through The Bard’s fingers.

“£2.08, £2.09, £2.10.” When he bequeathed the coins, his hand ling’red with the barista’s. In that fleeting moment, he consider’d the coarse, calloused quality of his companion’s hand. This wast a worldly touch that had, no doubt, known the hardness of iron and bronze and all makes of heavy machinery.

“Wait, do I know you from somewhere?”

Then Shakespeare met his gaze. ’Twas as if all his life he had been lost at sea, and anon the barista’s eyes—his crisp, blue eyes—were the shining stars that would guide him home.

“I—er—don’t think so…”

“Yeah—you’re that prodigy! Your play premiered last night at the Globe!”

“Oh, that little thing.” Shakespeare’s cheeks did burn.

“I’ve never seen such a body count!” The barista turned, located the Chemex, and unfurl’d a pap’r filter. “And the language—the inventiveness!” He weighed the grounds and loaded them into the filter. “The beautiful turns of phrase!” With great care, he wielded his gooseneck kettle, pouring the boiling water o’er the grounds. “You’re going to be something special one day, Mister…” He turned.

It did not escape The Bard that the barista could have simply decanted a pre-brewed cup from one of the large, silv’r tanks. Pour-over was usually a special ask.

“Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare,” the barista teased the name across his pallet like the finest of wines, as he dispensed the coffee into a little pap’r cup. He emblazon’d the eleven digits across the cup in elegant, sweeping cursive.

Their hands intermingl’d, once more, as Shakespeare accepted the beverage. The musk-and-clove scent of the barista’s cologne teased The Bard’s nostrils. He smiled, stealing a glance at his companion’s nametag. He repeated those syllables—those two wondrous, honey-soaked syllables—committing them to memory. Dustin.

When they, at last, separated, it left Shakespeare so disjointed, he tipped the boiling coffee onto his hand.

“Are you working on your magnum opus? Right here, in our humble Starbucks?” Dustin gestured to the laptop.

Shakespeare’s lip did tremor beneath the weight of an impending scream. Tears did sting the corners of his eyes. His palm did sizzle with a madd’ning fury. But ’twas of tantamount importance he maintained his aloof manner.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

“Perhaps. ’Tis neither here nor there,” he said, attempting a wink. But it actualized itself as a pained half-grimace.

Hot! Hot! Hottttt!

In one swift motion, he turned and shuffled to a table in the opposite corner of the room. The instant he sat down, he raided the napkin dispens’r, pressing a wad to the afflicted palm. Through teary eyes, he peered at Dustin who, mercifully, had directed his attention to the next customer.

Sniffling, Shakespeare booted up his laptop. He gazed longingly at the open window, “Macbeth.doc.” Then, sighing, he X-ed out of it and pulled up Indeed.com.

Act II

“Shakespeare, what’s your approach to writing search engine optimized content?”

“Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered,” Shakespeare said, indulging in a long pull of complementary Fiji water. “But mine is a methodically charted course.”

Fran Stankowitz, Director of Content, unfurl’d her ballpoint with a menacing click. Her stare cut like the wind of a discontented winter.

“I embark upon my journey by consulting a keyword planning tool—preferably SEMrush.” The Bard poked a finger under his polyest’r collar, attempting to create some breathing room. “I search my desired topic to gain a crow’s nest view of keyword volume and competitiveness. Then I casteth off toward my desired keyword, shaping my content ’round it.” With another gulp of Fiji water, he stalled, trying to recall the rest of that HubSpot article. “Quality backlinks are my trusty crew—they establish credibility when search engines doth crawl the site. Once I’ve reached the shore, I load my content into WordPress, add images with alt tags, and craft a 155-character meta description. Then, ’tis time to post.”

For a spell the words hung there, unaddressed. As Fran completed her notes, Shakespeare fought, with all his might, the urge to loosen his tie’s violent chokehold.

At last, Fran, with great delib’racy, set her pen down. “Well, that was quite…” She paused, furrowing her brow. “Verbose…”

Shakespeare winced, bracing himself for the sting of rejection.

She studied her notes. “But your SEO fundamentals are sound.” Her glare softened to a smile.

“Thanks,” he murmur’d, masking his disbelief.

“You’re currently an Intern at The Globe Theater. Why do you want to switch to a career at The Content Depot?”

Because I envy the panhandler’s riches.

“Art thee kidding? The Content Depot is the most respected name in online content creation.”

“And you won’t miss writing your plays?”

“’Tis just a hobby, really—something to dabble in after work with a glass of red wine.”

Fran leaned back in her chair. “Your writing sample was excellent, your SEO knowledge is strong, and your qualifications would bring a unique perspective…” She crossed her arms. “I guess my last question is, where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Taking roses and und’rgarments to the face as I step onstage for the Macbeth curtain call. Waking up the following morning to a Times review that employs such language as “an emotional tour de force” and “the singular voice of his generation.” Smoking a fine cigar on a French veranda as I auction off the film rights.

“Why, right here at The Content Depot.” He wrenched off his tie, gasping for breath. “Managing a team.”

***

Tomorrow and the day after and the day after, creeps at a snail’s pace—

Shakespeare slammed the “backspace” key.

’Tis wrong. ’Tis all wrong! “Snail’s pace”? ’Tis a vapid cliché. This monologue must outlive the gilded monuments of princes! It must reverb’rate through the annals of history with the undying—

“Hey, Shakespeare, we need some content about The Bachelor—the season premiere airs in two weeks!”

“Certainly.” Shakespeare minimized Macbeth.doc. “I shall add it to my queue.”

“Great.” Fran scribbl’d it on The Content Calendar—a sprawling whiteboard that traversed the south wall of the office. Seeing it all laid out at once—the millions of drudgerous words that lay ahead—ne’er failed to make Shakespeare wince. “Let’s keep the content machine churning!”

This aphorism, “the content machine,” had manifested itself in the darkest catacombs of Shakespeare’s subconscious. It came thund’ring to him in his dreams, an industrial-era monolith dwarfing all that stood before it. A convey’r belt fed the machine globs of flesh extract’d from various fixtures of the human anatomy—love handles, kidneys, and, in some cases, lungs. After a great deal of sputt’ring and whirring and smoke-breathing, long scrolls of parchment emerged out the other end, inked in Comic Sans. Gregorian Monks flanked the content machine on all sides, heads bowed in rev’rence. In perfect unison, they chanted: “which Friends character am I?” These words reverb’rated through Shakespeare’s skull, drowning out all else. And then the chanting did cease, the conveyor belt did cut off, the machine did sputter to a halt. Only Fran’s footsteps had the audacity to break the silence. She emerged before him, clasping some unseen object behind her back, iridescent smile piercing the gloom. With a cackle, she placed it in his palm. A dagger. The monks began their chanting anew: “15 Game-Changing Life Hacks.” Shakespeare held the cold blade to his gut, squeezed his eyes shut, and counted down from ten. Three, two, one… ’Twas at this moment that he always shot awake, tangl’d in the sheets, drenched in sweat.

The Bachelor’s 10 Hottest Hunks.

Quiz: Which Bachelor Hunk is Your Soul Mate?

Oh, No She Didn’t: The Bachelor’s 15 Feistiest Cat Fights

Shakespeare jotted these titles in a Google Doc, dismayed by how eas’ly they came to him. Sighing, he gazed upon the long rows of writers, trapped in this diabolical fact’ry farm—oblivious to their own imprisonment. Developing seasonal affective disorder as the days crept by outside the windowless walls of the warehouse. Shakespeare witnessed not a summer day, nor beheld the darling buds of May. There was only cruel blue light and brick. The occasional cough cutting through the din.

Act III

The sun’s first rays bruised the horizon. London shimmer’d before Shakespeare, a crystalline jewel, cruel in its unattainability. At the edge of his vision sat The Globe, stately and untwinkling. Through his floor-to-ceiling windows the light did break, tinging his marble countertops, his stainless-steel appliances, and his sharply-angled furniture a delicate purple. All the world’s witches could not conjure a more perfect morn’ for playwriting. He indulged in one last swig of coffee and click’d the “W” icon.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to crusty death!

Sighing, The Bard opened Gmail. But he had not a single parcel, save for a 15% off promotional email from Starbucks.  He refresh’d. Still nothing.

He opened Macbeth.doc once more.

’Tis nothing more than a dumpster fire in iambic pentameter.

He deleted the monologue in its entirety.

I require a spark of inspiration.

Shakespeare snagg’d his Mason jar of Purple Haze—a strain that, according to his dealer, would give him “dope-ass creative vibes.” Throwing on David Bowie, he grinded the herb into fine particles and, with ceremony, loaded them into his vaporiz’r.

Just a couple hits—I must keep my wits about me.

Inevitably, The Bard did find himself high as balls. Now, the monologue may well have been penn’d in Hieroglyphs.

I suppose I must wait for the come-down.

He glanced at the clock. Then, peeking o’er his shoulders, he dispensed three pumps of lotion and armed himself with two tissues. He open’d an Incognito window and typed:

www.ManHub.com

***

“Seriously?” Dustin broke from Shakespeare’s kiss, lip upturn’d in disgust.

“What ails you, my lambkin?”

“You’re not even hard.”

Those four words pierced the evening like a dagger. For a spell, Shakespeare consider’d the Bonsai in the corner of the room. He marvel’d upon the years it must’ve taken to train it into its current shape—a series of descending right angles, like a staircase.

“Fret not!” Shakespeare clasped his companion’s hand. “Tonight, I shall play bottom.”

“That’s not the point,” Dustin said, slinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“What is the point? Enlighten me.”

“You really want to know?”

“I inquired, did I not?”

Dustin unleashed a long-bottl’d sigh. “You constantly complain that you’re too good to work at The Content Depot. That you’re this generational talent forced into a life of servitude.”

“I am.”

“But you haven’t even finished that damn play you started when we met. It’s been three years, for Christsakes.”

“Great art takes time.”

“I’m not denying that.” Dustin pulled his T-shirt back o’er his bronzed shoulders. “But when was the last time you earnestly worked on it? The last time you sat down at your desk and didn’t get stoned and wank off?”

“Why, just this morning!”

“Come on.” Dustin shot him a knowing look. “Your eyes are red as cherry tomatoes.”

“’Tis my allergies.”

 “I tasted the lotion on you.”

Shakespeare, again, regarded the Bonsai. O’er the ceaseless beating of the decades, did it even realize it was being trained? Or did it, one day, with great shock and horror, find itself warp’d into this perversion of nature?

 “If you never finish Macbeth, that’s fine—I don’t care if you’re a famous writer,” Dustin said, kicking his feet into his pantaloons. “It’s the bitterness that concerns me.”

“Bitterness?”

“All you do is brood and fret and murmur half-baked soliloquies. It’s like you’re the lead in one of your own tragedies.” Dustin laced up his sneakers. “And God forbid you see so much as an upward curl on the corners of someone else’s lips.” His brow harden’d like a Grecian statue.

“’Tis a blatant falsehood!” Despite his dismay, Shakespeare felt a swelling in his loins. Dustin was no longer a pusho’er—tonight, he was a great conjuror of tempests. “I was o’erjoyed for you when you won your kickboxing regional championship!”

 “It’s CrossFit. I do CrossFit now,” Dustin said, turning toward the door. “And for the record—”

Before he could finish, Shakespeare was upon him, kissing him with vi’lence. Almost instantly, Dustin acquiesced, body submitting itself to The Bard. Shakespeare tore Dustin’s T-shirt as he wrestled it off him. Dustin trembl’d and moaned as Shakespeare undid his belt buckle, whipped him around, and pinned him against the wall.

***

In the stagnant hours of the early morn’, Shakespeare awoke. He laid his hand upon Dustin’s side of the bed, but ’twas cold and empty. The imprint of his body still linger’d.

“Dustin?”

Only a distant siren dared to break the silence.

“Dustin?!” Shakespeare rose in a panic, darting through his apartment. The place suddenly felt foreign, cold with its aquarium windows, its disorienting paintings, its many hard edges. The all-white color scheme now seem’d institutional, as if he were standing in a hospital. Or perhaps an asylum.

Frantically, he rifled through Dustin’s bathroom drawer, his bookshelf, his closet. But all traces of him had vanished.

Act IV

’Twas the morn’ of Flannel Friday that Shakespeare first saw it. Or, perhaps, first register’d it. His hairline was no longer a lush thicket of brown locks. Alas, it had receded like the tide upon a pebbled sho—

A Gmail notification rang out:

Dear Shakespeare,

It’s great to hear from you again! Glad things are going well at The Content Depot.

I had a chance to review your manuscript. Though it had some great moments—particularly with the witches and the self-fulfilling prophecy—I regret to inform you that we can’t stage Macbeth at The Globe at this time.

Please don’t take this as a statement about the quality of your work. We’re currently in a run of plays by a hot young prodigy and we simply don’t have the budget for anything else.

Thank you for thinking of us and we wish you the best of luck staging this elsewhere.

Sincerely,

James Burbage

P.S. I think the “tomorrow” speech needs a stronger last line!

With thund’rous keystrokes, Shakespeare printed the entirety of Macbeth.doc and deleted the file from his hard drive.

He took the solitary copy of his magnum opus to the parking lot, sparked up his lighter, and watched it burn, visions of mewling infants and saw-spewing geriatrics and Dustin’s bronzed shoulders dancing in the flames.

Act V

“So do our minutes hasten to their end.” Shakespeare gazed out his office’s slit window, watching a marshal of bulldozers assemble in the courtyard. Growling with menace, the machines surrounded the little arboretum christen’d after the CEO: “Birnam Wood.”

“Soon you’ll be counting royalty checks in a Kensington high-rise,” his old cubemate, Doug, had told him, all those hump days ago. “Sure as Birnam Wood still stands.”

The backhoe raised its shovel to the sky, throwing an eerie shadow o’er the courtyard. The story had been all over the papers—a tourist had released an invasive beetle species in the arboretum. Slowly, methodically, the insects gnawed through the rare trees—Japanese Maples and Katsuras and Little Poncho Dwarf Dogwoods—leaving gnarled branches in their wake. The once-vibrant ecosystem was now an incubator for a great plague. The op’rator took a long drag of his cigarette, relishing the anticipation. Even Birnam Wood was doomed to face the scythe.

Shakespeare’s Calendar Alarm dinged, jolting him from his trance.

Q4 Content Planning Meeting

He stepped out of his office, admiring the ranks of writers sitting at attention. Each was ready to charge into the uncertainty of the blank page. To risk Carpal Tunnel and Scoliosis on his command.

“Happy Monday,” Shakespeare said, uncapping an Expo marker. “The season premiere of The Great British Bake Off draws near. Does anyone wish to write a piece on that?”

“I got it.”

“Andrea, thank you kindly.” Shakespeare added it to The Content Calendar, whose scrawls now engulfed all four of the office’s walls.

***

When Shakespeare return’d to his office, Birnam Wood was no more. A barren pit of dirt sat in its place. There were no signs the contractors had been present—not even a stray tread mark. A single Dogwood flower whipped in the wind, smoldering orange in the slow burn of the sunset.

The Bard sat at his desk, preparing to copy edit a Peaky Blinders quiz. But, alas, he could not muster the focus. He could hear only the deafening roar of computer keys and mouse clicks. It drowned out all semblance of thought. The Bard tried to silence it with noise cancelling headphones but, alas, ’twas futile. This was the sound that tormented him in the small hours of the night, rend’ring sheep-counting impossible. This was the sound that, when he did sleep, rumbl’d just beneath the confines of his dreamscape. This was the sound of his legacy. A life’s work measured in “clicks.”

Shakespeare open’d the bottom drawer of his desk and removed an oversized Ziplock. Inside was a pillow. Dustin’s pillow. The last relic of The Bard’s youth. He lower’d his blinds, cracked the bag open, and inhaled the scent like a drug fiend.

As he exhaled, a line came to him, as if summoned by an incantation. Opening a new Word doc, he let it flow:

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.