With all the heart's blood and total dedication

Frustrated, Howard stared at his laptop screen, typing words out expertly with two fingers. It was a jumble of nonsense, serving only as a way to get used to it, which he felt was necessary. Howard missed the clacking of the typewriter, that little big bang that produced every single letter.

The almost silent keystrokes were like alcohol-free beer to him. He didn't drink beer often. But when he did, he wouldn't drink it without the key ingredient. This was merely a substitute for writing, not an act of creation. For goodness' sake, it was too quiet. It didn't drown out his wife's voice. He'd thought she'd finally shut up as soon as he started writing, which was pleasant to her ears. That was the reason for buying this little typewriter substitute: the muffled, barren tapping.

Howard was a compulsive writer. He had struggled with the old-fashioned typewriter that didn't need plugging in and had liked the staccato rhythm of the keys when he was in the flow of writing. It was like a film score, like an accompanying drumroll. The machine had a heavy keystroke. It was a struggle to type quickly. It was hard work. Everyone could hear it. Vera called it a racket. But Vera had a different term for everything Howard did.

For example, she had a standard phrase for his brave decision to leave his father's business to devote himself more fully to writing: 'outrageous stupidity'. She couldn't – or wouldn't – understand that Howard was destined for greater things than selling coffins and various packages for funeral arrangements to bereaved families. Any idiot could do that, as was evident from his brother, Wolfgang. Howard didn't want to waste his talent on feigned sympathy and distinguished expressions. Every now and then, however, he did lend a hand – after all, it was his family – but he didn't want to have to do it all the time. He earned just enough to get by from his part-time driving job, and Vera had two cleaning jobs.

After all, he was a creative type. Yes, that's what he was – creative! Vera couldn't even vary the fried potato recipe she'd been using for fifteen years. Nor could she think of any new insults. Her vocabulary ranged from 'loser' to 'idiot'; there was nothing in between. But he would show her. He would show them all! His father organised funerals, but they weren't important in Howard's world. The corpses he created in his novels were either encased in concrete and left to float in harbour basins, or buried in dense undergrowth. Crime was his metier. He wrote crime stories with a passion. Vera had once taken it upon herself to read one of his manuscripts. All she said about it was: 'The detective, Braxton or whatever his name is, now that's a bloke. The sort of bloke you'll never be.' She hadn't said anything else.

It should have been obvious to Howard that Vera was incapable of understanding complex plots. He could have predicted that she would fancy Braxton. He was smart, tough, intelligent and feared, he was the terror of the underworld. Women fancied him. In fact, they were at his feet. Braxton took them when it suited him and discarded them. He had more important things to do. He took on anyone and he was as hard as steel. He had a sixth sense for crime. He wouldn't even have looked up at someone like Vera. Of course, she didn't realise that.

Howard now stared gloomily at the screen once more. Maybe it would help if he played his favourite music while he wrote. That is, if his wife's sensitive ears didn't put a stop to it.

After a few arguments over the following days, Howard began sneaking out of bed as soon as Vera had fallen asleep, to sit down at his desk. He started writing by hand again, just as he had done as a schoolboy when his parents thought he was asleep. That was when he'd written his first stories, by the light of his little desk lamp. Although it gave him cramp, he discovered that he loved the feeling of the ink flowing. Howard used an old piston-fill fountain pen with a broad nib. The words simply flowed onto the paper. It was a fascinating experience. In the truest sense, the writing flowed from the fountain pen, and Howard felt more creative than he had in a long time.

Moreover, Howard had a secret. He had sent several of his stories to publishers. He hadn't dared to do so before. Who knew what they thought of good crime stories? But ever since he started following this astonishing flow of creativity, he wasn't afraid of anything. The ideas flowed straight from his head to the paper. Who needed a keyboard anyway? Perhaps that had been the mistake: he'd put a machine between himself and the paper. This fountain pen was different; it was a link – an adapter. Vera didn't say a word. In fact, it was quite amusing when she dusted off the closed laptop with a sour expression on her face and asked if he couldn't manage with it, after all, adding that she'd have guessed as much. Then she made a few remarks about the money wasted on it.

Several weeks later, Howard cursed himself for his carelessness. He'd failed to keep an eye on the post, and Vera had got to the letterbox before him. Naturally, she'd seen that the sender was a publishing house she recognised. She hadn't opened the letter, but she wouldn't leave Howard's side. She had a very specific strategy. She railed and nagged at him, insulting and mocking him, until he flung the unopened letter at her. What followed lasted a good two hours.

'Your stories are lifeless, aren't they? Not exactly gripping. Your writing is boring, just like you. Have you read it? Good authors write with their heart and soul. You've got no heart, you failure!', she sneered at him. Carried away by her triumph, Vera ignored Howard's point that the publisher had actually described the stories as 'in need of development'. She displayed a surprising creativity in the insults she hurled at him, until the world sank before his very eyes into a blood-red sea.

The following evening, Howard sat at his desk by the light of a small lamp, shaking his fountain pen and holding it up to the light to examine the liquid in the glass reservoir. He gave the pen a gentle shake and noted with satisfaction that it sloshed almost inaudibly inside. It was astonishing what information you could find on the Internet if you looked for it. The aim had been to prevent the ink from clotting. After all, the flow of writing mustn't be disrupted. Citrate was the solution. Citric acid. Smiling, Howard settled himself comfortably. It was going to be a long, productive night. Like every successful author, he wrote with passion. Even if it wasn't his own.

While Howard wrote as if possessed, a phone call was diverted to the answering machine, which he didn't notice. 'Vera? It's Mum here. You haven't been in touch. Has something happened? Please give me a ring. I'm worried.'

© 'With all the heart's blood and total dedication': A short story by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati), 09/2026. The illustration 'Death found an author writing his life' was drawn by Edward Hull and is licensed under Creative Commons.