I’m nearly finished writing another book.
This one won’t be published for the public though. It’s a technical manual.
I’d never done a technical manual before; therefore, this genre has been entirely new to me.
I was at one point reminded, Technically speaking, technical manuals do not fall into a “genre,” Shelley.
I was also at one point informed that my other skills of fiction writing were, although appreciated, inapplicable with this work.
“What do you mean?” I’d asked, halfway through the job.
Please do not allow the machinery to have any “dialogue.”
Hugely disappointing news.
In my mind, everything is conversing with anything beside it. Refrigerators hum, clocks tic, boats roar, trees creek, tea kettles whistle, grills hiss, frying pans spit, drains gurgle—I could go on.
There is conversation with their purpose, with their function, and it is our choice to tune in to hear it if we choose to do so—or maybe it’s just a special type of non-worrisome derangement those of us who practice anthropomorphizing inanimate objects experience every day.
So, okay, the mash tuns, the fermenters, the stills, and bottling equipment will not be engaged with any discourse. Fine.
Also, no need to “set the scene.”
Wait. What? No “Once upon a time”? No “In a galaxy far, far away”?
No “Imagine if you can, a farm field in Virginia filled with rows of waving grain. Corn so tall, so yellow, so sweet. Wheat so soft, so feathery, so—”
No. Also, just list the manufacturer of each piece of equipment. No need to give colorful backstory that creates a uh … biography for them.
But the still is an old copper Armagnac pot which surely, if you’d allow me to research, has the most fascinating history, connecting it to a village in Gascony, and likely to some illicit brandy making where people’s lives were at risk for defying the king’s orders and skirting around the excise men, right?
No. Louis XVI died in 1793. The still was made in 2006. Write that down.
No excise men?
*insert cold stare here
Fine. Hard facts only. It has been an arduous road to travel. It has been serial numbers, maintenance schedules, standard operating procedures, operator responsibilities, quality controls, ingredient specification sheets, safety protocol, system malfunction detection. It has been measurements, sampling data, testing methods, recording methodology, and out of the realm of tolerance identification.
No language describing the invention of any equipment, the trials and tribulations of the inventor, the recognition, the accolades, the race between rivals to patent first, to reach the market, to make a name and reap rewards.
No timeline of history, the tales of great machinery malfunction and mishaps that caused strife, or injury, or daresay … death.
Nope. Just operator files.
It’s ‘if blank, do blank.’ Or ‘when this, then this.’ It’s ‘measure now, record here.’
There’s no beginning, middle, or end.
It is not a story, not a narrative, no plot.
None of the machinery barely scrapes by, screeches to a halt, or belches out for attention.
The manual is meant to be informative. Concise. Crystal clear. It is meant to provide a “just in case” scenario for an event like a catastrophic pandemic wiping out all previous operators’ ability to fight through throngs of apocalyptic zombies to appear at the facility, allowing any stranger to eventually walk in off the street, discover the book and easily, effectively, and effortlessly pick up where we left off.
No, Shelley. It is meant to use as a teaching guide for new employees.
Yeah, that too, but my take could be plausible (I mumble quietly).
So, I study each piece of equipment. I learn its function. I define its specifications. I describe its purpose. It is thirsty work as I crawl around, beneath, above, and inside many of them. I watch them perform. I study their mechanisms. I research their optimal modes.
And I learn … they are still magical.
I learn it from listening to the operators as they describe their years of experience working with each station.
The grain will stubbornly clump and ball if you don’t chase it with the paddle in the cooker. It likes to hide right in that corner.
If you don’t clamp down the hose securely, the impellor pump turns into a raging snake that’ll spit hot mash on every square inch of the production room floor.
You see that steam rising from the strip still’s parrot spout? We call that the dragon’s breath.
I did find a story. The story of waking up the yeast before releasing it into its comforting, warm bath, of performing the tightly timed choreography between pieces of machinery as they demanded immediate attention to avoid calamity, of discovering that the general consensus for many of the processes was that you just had to feel it, smell it, taste it, gauge it. The machinery had its tells, and a good operator was sensitive to them and could anticipate results because of the accumulated years of a bonding relationship.
Making whiskey requires procedural care, yes. It’s a recipe. It’s a step by step adventure that when timed perfectly churns out a salable product.
But to me, and to others, the machinery is responsible for the alchemy, the head-spinning potions, the conjuration that leads grains to glass, this honeyed, headying elixir.
But the manual will not reveal that magic. The manual will not even hint at it. The manual conceals the story.
Except it’s there. We just don’t capture it within the pages that keep the secret safe. It is for others to read between the lines, to unearth the buried story within it.
If they find it after the zombie apocalypse.
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