CELEBRITY BY DARIAN LANE
What’s it like being the greatest writer of all time?
I’ll tell you.
The Sun, The Moon, The Stars all bow when I exit the apartment. Girls with glasses look at me. Stare. Guys get jealous. Cars stop in the middle of the street. People ask for autographs. Always expecting me to write something snippy or witty. Awkward moments. I just scribble my name.
I never have to buy a drink or pay for a dinner. People are perverse that way. Strangers walk up to me like they know me. The pictures. The pictures. Picture perfect moments that are flawed. Flash.
And the women. Oh, the women. Always asking, When your next project is coming out? I usually hem & haw some obscure answer that gets them all the more curious. The more curious, the more dot dot dot …
In college I used intellect, charm, pizazz; now I just hand them a short story and watch them foam at the mouth. All it takes is a sentence. A word. A phrase. And the foam starts spewing. Sometimes they break into convulsions from my genius. Almost like an epileptic fit. It is at this point in the conversation I bend over, retrieve my product, meticulously place my phone number in their purse, and step over them as I walk through the double doors into the gleaming light of my greatness…
There is however a seamy side. People always try to copy my work. Talentless People. Bitter; they create labels for you, labels like; arrogant, self-serving, misogynistic, asshole. Their overly-read intellect will not allow them to appreciate the innovative, the mind-boggling sheer power of my writing. Sometimes they’ll even try to compare me to another author; thus giving off the subliminal message I copied that writer. Nobody writes like me, I tell them. Nobody.
As a child I used to stare into the mirror and ask myself…”Vincent, you genius of a writer you, what would you rather have…success “or” be known as the greatest writer of all time?’ In a flash I had the answer. Immediately I dropped to my knees and begged God to grant me talent over success. God has answered that prayer. Yet I question it everyday.
I’ll tell you.
The Sun, The Moon, The Stars all bow when I exit the apartment. Girls with glasses look at me. Stare. Guys get jealous. Cars stop in the middle of the street. People ask for autographs. Always expecting me to write something snippy or witty. Awkward moments. I just scribble my name.
I never have to buy a drink or pay for a dinner. People are perverse that way. Strangers walk up to me like they know me. The pictures. The pictures. Picture perfect moments that are flawed. Flash.
And the women. Oh, the women. Always asking, When your next project is coming out? I usually hem & haw some obscure answer that gets them all the more curious. The more curious, the more dot dot dot …
In college I used intellect, charm, pizazz; now I just hand them a short story and watch them foam at the mouth. All it takes is a sentence. A word. A phrase. And the foam starts spewing. Sometimes they break into convulsions from my genius. Almost like an epileptic fit. It is at this point in the conversation I bend over, retrieve my product, meticulously place my phone number in their purse, and step over them as I walk through the double doors into the gleaming light of my greatness…
There is however a seamy side. People always try to copy my work. Talentless People. Bitter; they create labels for you, labels like; arrogant, self-serving, misogynistic, asshole. Their overly-read intellect will not allow them to appreciate the innovative, the mind-boggling sheer power of my writing. Sometimes they’ll even try to compare me to another author; thus giving off the subliminal message I copied that writer. Nobody writes like me, I tell them. Nobody.
As a child I used to stare into the mirror and ask myself…”Vincent, you genius of a writer you, what would you rather have…success “or” be known as the greatest writer of all time?’ In a flash I had the answer. Immediately I dropped to my knees and begged God to grant me talent over success. God has answered that prayer. Yet I question it everyday.
