If Ever...
If ever I became a writer with a book on some shelves I would march myself on a writer’s parade. I would go shop to shop signing novels I’ve written, shaking hands and chatting, because after all, isn’t that what writers are best at? I’d talk about the weather and politics and gibberish, I’d discuss plot, characters and progress. I would go on social networks to publicize my novel and smile for every photograph taken. If ever I became a writer with a public figure.
If ever I had opinions that innocents would pay for I would set up a writing workshop with me as top pontificate. Into a small room I would herd them and set them at desks with paper and pen. Before eyes I would stand, nervously laugh, wring my hands, open my mouth: “Why did you come here?” I would ask them. “Answers I want not, keep those to yourselves. Instead, class dismissed! I’ve nothing new to tell you. Read the old books, read the new books, lock yourself in a room, for years if you have to until reams of paper you’ve filled. Then come back.”
Years pass. If they return undaunted, still writing across blank paper and the words that are written are stained with the truth of self-knowledge, then I’d say, “Way to go!” And if not: “Try again.”
What secret is there, dare I ask? Knowledge cannot be paid for. To write is a boon procured over time, snipped and trimmed with a sagging behind. Our society is way too preoccupied. A writer hangs around on the outside.
If ever I became a writer that people respected I would be the rain on the writer’s parade. They would call off the circus for lack of participants: Everybody’s too smart for you! Besides we’ve got much better things to do, like fill reams of paper with gibberish nonsense and read books old and new.
If ever… until then, there’s a lot of writing I need to do.
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