“Please, there's gotta be something else I can do. Like mow your lawn every week for two weeks. I can't do it next week.”

Homer Simpson, The Simpsons

AT FIRST, the game had become my life. And later, life itself had become a game.

I’d failed at life. By my thirty-plus I had a wife, a string of one-off freelance gigs, a state-of-the-art computer, a level 110 rogue character in a popular RPG game and a beer gut.

I also wrote books. A book, rather. I hadn’t finished it yet.

Before, I used to feel flattered whenever someone called me a writer. But over the years, I’d finally forced myself to face the uncomfortable truth: I wasn’t a writer at all. The only reason they called me so was because I had no other social tag to describe me by.

So who was I, then? A failed albeit once-promising sales rep who’d been fired from a dozen workplaces? Big deal. These days, everyone and their dog called themselves online marketing gurus.

Me, I couldn’t sell anything. In order to promote a product, I had to believe in it. I just couldn’t do it knowing the customer had no more need for it than for a garbage can.

I used to sell extra-powerful vacuum cleaners to gullible senior citizens; I’d hawked the latest water filters to big-city geeks who lived on rehydrated foods; I marketed premade websites to wannabe startups who’d mortgaged their homes to open their first businesses. I’d sold online advertisement, package tours, weight loss supplements and vermifuge pills.

I couldn’t sell jack. I kept losing job after job after job. I also used to run a blog in my spare time (and admittedly during my work hours as well) where I published short stories to entertain whatever meager readership I could garner. That gave me enough ground to consider myself a decent Internet marketer.

Eventually, I’d even found a job with a company looking for someone to run their online store. Still, my very first meeting with their director had exposed my utter incompetence. He demanded to see their conversion rates, average order value, customer engagement levels, bounce rate, LTV and all the paraphernalia of stats I’d been supposed to present him with.

Apparently, running an online business had more to it than just keeping a witty blog peppered with comments and likes. Did you say trial period? They’d fired me before it had even run out.

Offended to the quick, I decided to finally learn the ropes. I downloaded a whole pile of courses, textbooks and video tutorials and even signed up for a few webinars.

I lasted exactly a week. For the first five days or so, I thoroughly enjoyed my new status. This wasn’t going to take long, after all. With my enthusiasm and application, I was going to grasp the science of online marketing in no time.

I already pictured myself as a popular expert with a customers’ list to match, someone who could charge top dollar for their knowledge of the market. I would finally buy myself a house and a decent car; I would take frequent vacations and enjoy all the perks of the four-hour workweek lifestyle.

Although admittedly euphoric, I wasn’t in a hurry to actually hit the books. Over the course of those five days, my enthusiasm had finally worn thin, leaving me in the same place as before. When finally I forced myself to sit down and actually study, I quickly felt sad and bored. By the end of the second day, I realized I wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.

I spent the next year scraping by on my meager blog advertising income and doing occasional freelance jobs. Yanna, my wife, still had faith in me and my supposed potential — but her patience was already dwindling. Eight years my junior, she was at an age when all her friends were discussing the best shopping and vacation destinations while the best she could do was accompany her blogger husband to an occasional closed movie preview. Anyone can lose faith under these circumstances.

Then again, take Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for instance. His wife had supported him and their children for many a long year while he technically did nothing but eat, make children and write One Hundred Years of Solitude. Had her faith in him worn out? Not that I know of.

Now Yanna, she was different. She was younger and child free. Which was probably why these days her voice rang with sarcasm whenever I mentioned my book.

In actual fact, as the months went by, her respect for me seemed to be fading. It showed in lots of little things I’d never paid any attention to at first.

And as far as my book was concerned... you see, there had been a moment when I realized that I would turn thirty pretty soon, with nothing to show for it really. My life was reaching its zenith; very soon it would begin its decline.

I still remember that moment very well. I awoke after the mother of all parties and decided to write a bestseller. With my talent, nothing could have been easier, I thought.

Funnily enough, writing proved rather hard. Either I’d overestimated the extent of my talent or maybe — just maybe — I hadn’t had the said talent to begin with. My brain struggled to produce words which my hands then duly deleted.

It had taken me three months to write the first page, all the while reporting my excellent writing progress in my blog according to which, I was already working on Chapter Twelve. My friends kept offering their services as beta readers. Still, I was pretty sure that even if I’d had something to show them, they wouldn’t have stuck with it. The fact remained, I had nothing to show them so I didn’t, explaining my decision by my unwillingness to make an unfinished draft public.

When finally I’d completed Chapter Three, I couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. I uploaded the whole thing to my blog, looking forward to a dose of comments, likes and other people’s opinions.

But before doing so, I asked Yanna to take a look. She refused.

“I want you to finish it first,” she said. “Then I’ll read it in its entirety. I don’t like works in progress, be it a book or a film.”

Much later, she would read the completed part of the novel, anyway. By then, she probably didn’t believe I’d ever finish the wretched thing.

I didn’t post the chapters in my blog though. Instead, I uploaded them to a popular writers’ portal under an assumed name.

That night, I went to bed excited. This was similar to how I used to feel as a child the night before going on a fishing trip with Dad, looking forward to a day of happiness, joy and eventual success. I imagined myself getting up in the morning, taking an unhurried shower, shaving and brushing my teeth, making myself a cup of extra strong coffee, lighting a cigarette and finally, opening the page with my first chapter, bursting with the readers’ praise and demands to post the rest of the book.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I awoke about lunchtime and hurried to open the computer before even brushing my teeth.

Two page reads. No likes. One comment:

I couldn’t finish this, sorry. I don’t think writing is for you.

At that particular moment, I decided I was going to finish the damn thing, even if only to piss that person off. I smoked half a packet of cigarettes, then began working on the next chapter.

Only I couldn’t. Neither that day nor the next. If the truth were known, I haven’t written a single line ever since.

It wasn’t just because I couldn’t think of anything to write about. I simply couldn’t concentrate. I was constantly being distracted by social media notifications, chatroom messages, our cat Boris (more about her later), the cold draft in the room, Yanna, the flies, the boiling kettle, my empty coffee mug, the articles and blog posts I needed to read, feeling sleepy, my favorite TV series coming on in five minutes’ time, feeling hungry, a craving for a cigarette, and the uncomfortable stool which I then replaced with an equally uncomfortable easy chair I’d gotten on a sale... You name it, it distracted me from writing.

And that’s not even mentioning the Game.

That’s right: the Game with a capital G. Because by then, it had long become my life.

It was in the Game that I’d met Yanna. It was there that I’d booked the biggest successes of my life (that’s not a joke LOL. I really think so.)

Our clan had even made it to #2 in the rankings. We were literally snowed under with new applications. We could have taken our pick of new players — and that was exactly what we did. We didn’t accept all and sundry.

As the clan leader’s deputy, I was responsible for lots of things — which put a considerable strain on my time. We used to offer all sorts of in-game services to loaded players, securing a small trickle of income both for the clan and its leadership. Still, if you converted those amounts to real-world money, it was laughable.

Last night, we’d been busy exploring the new updates — which had turned into a non-stop frag fest of wipes and resurrections as we tried to complete the new dungeon. Its boss just didn’t want to die. The air in the voice chat was blue with our cussing. We kept wiping time and time again with no progress to show for it — but still we stood our ground and kept trying. Not that it helped us a lot.

For many of us, this was life. We were your typical hardcore nerd gamers who did all their socializing, living and achieving in VR.

In the game, your every action is immediately measured and rewarded — or not rewarded, as the case may be — with quite tangible payoffs such as XP points, gold, new achievements, Reputation, and quest awards. That makes your relationship with the game world perfectly square and correct.

Which was probably why I’d eventually become ambitious and motivated in the game but not IRL.

Which was also why we had to complete the new instance that same night before other clans got wind of it.

Only we hadn’t.

By the time we’d finally called it a day and disbanded, it was already early morning. I’d only just dosed off clutching the unfinished beer when Yanna got out of bed.

I used to know this guy who liked to point out the difference between the sympathy levels of the early birds and the night owls. The latter seem to be much more tactful with their early-riser friends, tucking them in and asking everyone to keep their voices down after 9 p.m.. The early birds didn’t seem to possess the same finesse of character. They loved nothing more than to drag a peacefully sleeping night owl out of bed before midday! Yanna was no exception.

“Hey, time to wake up! Breakfast’s ready! You’ve been playing all night again, haven’t you?”

She turned the TV on, opened the windows and began rattling with something in the kitchen.

“Phil Panfilov, damn you! Get up now! I’ll be late for work!”

Having breakfast together was one of our rituals. It’d started at a time when we’d spent long sleepless nights together — either playing or making love. When Yanna had finally graduated and found a job, our daily schedules had become pretty incompatible. But still we always had breakfast together.

My mind struggled to blank out the annoying cheerful yapping of a washing powder commercial. I needed to mute the wretched thing before it blew up my brain.

Without opening my eyes, I groped for the remote and put the sound down. I staggered toward the bathroom, turned the tap on, scalded myself, swore, turned the cold tap on, splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth and looked up in the mirror.

A rather worse-for-wear cross between a goblin and an orc which must have respawned one time too many stared back at me.

I really needed a shave. Maybe. One of these days.

We sat down to breakfast, facing each other at our tiny dining table in the corner. I unenthusiastically munched on my omelet. Yanna drank her coffee while expertly applying her makeup.

I remembered how I’d first met her. I’d been waiting for a raid to begin. Bored, I’d decided to let my phoenix mount stretch its wings for a while. We were flying over Kalimdor when I heard some low-level priestess begging for help in the local chat. Her name was Healiann. Apparently, she was being hurt by some nasty Tartar ganker. Naturally, I had to stop and teach him a lesson. She added me to her friend list. For a couple more months, I used to help her level up. Eventually we got talking in the voice chat. That’s when we’d found out we lived in the same city. I invited her to join our clan. It was during one of our clan’s drunken IRL meetups that we’d finally met face to face.

“Do you like blondes so much?” Yanna’s voice broke the silence.

What was I supposed to say to that? I did like blondes, true. Still, I also liked girls with dark hair as well as redheads and brunettes. Back in college I used to be in love with this girl who’d dyed her hair blue. Later, she’d shaved her head — but it didn’t make me love her less.

Yanna was a natural brunette going through a raven-black stage.

“Hair color doesn’t really matter to me,” I said. “Nor do other girls. You’re the only woman I’ve been in love with for the last, er, four years.”

Pretty stilted, I know.

“Yeah, right,” Yanna chuckled, apparently not too convinced. “Who’s that blonde in your book, then? At least you seem to remember how long we’ve been together.”

I choked on my ham and cheese sandwich. She was right. The main character in my book indeed fell in love with a blonde girl. But he wasn’t me, dammit!

I swallowed and cleared my throat. “I don’t like blondes. The guy in the book does. My main character.”

She squinted at me. “What’s so main about him?”

Her yet-unmascaraed eye reminded me of Gotham City Two-Face. She rocked her leg nervously until her fluffy slipper went flying across the room. That’s just a habit she had.

“Nothing,” I said. “He’s just a book character. It’s just that the book is written in the first-person POV. I find it easier to write this way.”

“Liar. You think I can’t see it? You’re blushing. Look at your hand, it’s shaking.”

The reason my hand was shaking was because I’d had too many beers the night before. Still, she had a point. I was lying.

“Very well, author,” she invested all her sarcasm into the word, “I must be off now.”

The heavy trail of her perfume hit me, arousing and sickly sweet. She gave me a peck on the lips and walked out.

The front door slammed.

I stared at the sandwich in my hand. I wasn’t hungry at all. I was sleepy.

I laid my head on my arms and studied the meager expanse of our kitchenette. The place reeked of frugal misery. The tiles above the sink were crumbling. The monotonous sound of the dripping tap was killing me. The broken oven door didn’t close anymore. The stove top was caked brown. The low ceiling, rusty gray from all the tobacco smoke, hung gloomily overhead.

The sight made me want to walk out onto the crumpled balcony of our one-bedroom apartment, climb its flaking wooden railings and just sit there dangling my feet in the air. Then just push myself off and jump down.

I got up, leaving the dirty plates on the kitchen table, and walked out onto the balcony.

The bright sunlight hurt my eyes. I squinted and stretched my stiff body, then reached into my pocket for some cigarettes.

The pack was empty. I swore and heaved a sigh. I was past caring. Must have been the nicotine withdrawal that did it to me.

I leant over the railing and stared at the eight-story drop. A deep puddle of rainwater glistened below, its steely surface reflecting a hasty procession of white fluffy clouds above.

The clouds parted momentarily, releasing a bright beam of sunshine.

It blinded me. I felt almost electrocuted.

The view swam before my eyes. My vision failed, then came back — sort of. It was now crowded with lots of little floating specks that looked suspiciously like some kinds of symbols and numbers.

I slumped onto a shaky old stool and wiped my eyes, trying to blink the illusion out of them.

Enough. Time to go and get some cigarettes. And coffee. And once I was back, I really needed to sit down and finish that wretched book.

I kept getting this nagging feeling that once that was out of the way, my problems would be over.

All I needed to do was finish the damn book.