I Can Write Anything I Want

You may have heard about me. I’m the greatest author in the world. Ah yes, truly, mere mortals of the English language bow down to my excellence. I am an engineer of pure literary art. The words I write hold more merit than a--uh… hmm… my metaphor engine seems stagnant right now, I might have to come back to this later. But, you should know, I singularly carry the human race’s literary achievements. I am so good at writing that everyone listens to me and what I have to say and believes everything at face value--oh goodness, curse me. I used a cliche: “at face value.” My perfectionism is at show here, I cannot call myself a master writer if I use cliches! Unoriginal phrases made by others and overused by others! Utter rubbish! But, as I was saying, what I write is plain truth. 

I am a writer of fiction, the greatest medium of art mankind has ever created. I am so globally famous, whatever I write, no matter how terrible it truly is, will be a phenomenal bestseller. I have toyed with the idea of this as of late. My last novel about a talking carrot in a cyberpunk city being chased by the minions of Genghis Khan was an ultimate bestseller, garnering a fanbase of millions and a cultural reputation so great that it is now taught in schools with English teachers explaining the metaphors and symbolisms of the elements of the story. I didn’t plan any metaphors or symbolisms, I simply wrote pure poppycock. There is no purpose to much of the story’s constituents. Yet, it was so wildly popular that multiple television series, films, songs, and even food dishes sprouted out of it (don’t ask).

I can write pure gibberish and it will still sell and be successful. This is all thanks to the glorious reputation I have built over decades of my writing career. asughasuighasuioghauishguiasguidsbvqwoiuagiuasiubadsidvghauidsgfuiasdguioasdgfhuiasdgf. What? What is the nonsense I have just written, you say? Exactly that. Nonsense. An incoherent sentence with no structure or form or style--the beginning not even capitalized! But I promise you, if I were to show that to the public, with just the right amount of marketing (but minimal since I am already so famous), it will sell. Possibly make me one or two million dollars, give or take. Life has never been so easy. I can write anything I want.

It baffles me how the masses heed to my every will despite me being an expert on things no better than they are. How did I begin? I began as a simple imagining dreamer, who put the things I dreamed of as words on pages. And somehow, people liked it. But now, they astound me with a type of reverence reserved for a god, as if what I did was such an amazing and worthy deed that I now have gained the wisdom of one. They think me some sort of genius now. Am I? I laugh at those that say yes. I am no more a normal human being, going through the experiences of everyday life, right in some things and wrong in other things, just like everyone else. I just write stories about it. That’s what separates me from them. But they don’t see that. So they continue to worship me as a clever master genius. 

fsidhgushguosdhuosdfhugs?. asoigyasio iaugi  . aoywoahgo -- ? ! siohguoasihgioa ! aoeuighauoehfauophg ? “  aeiuhasuifghauish “ zcxbjkzcxnbjngwetoiquweitoqu 99 

Oh, sorry. That’s just my literary brilliance coming out once again. Do you see the symbolism in the diction I have chosen? The metaphorical significance of the punctuation? The satirical merit of the number? Ah, such a marvellous feat of writing, wouldn’t you say? Perfect pacing and fluent style. Masterful tone. The highest degree of flawlessness. The meat of my literary sandwich of skill lies in the inspiration I get from my life and the world. And do you see the inspiration in that epic sentence I have written? It’s just oozing out like a slime draining out of a pipe!

Ahem. But where were we? Oh, yes. I was talking about how people regard me as an expert on life just because I was a person who sold many books. Pish posh, I say! It was a matter of skill, perhaps, but also a matter of luck. And I was lucky. My marketing team was fantastic, the audience I wrote for was ready, and I wrote in a genre that was at the peak of its popularity. All this lead to me, and only me, being right at the very top of the chain of literary geniuses.

Where does that leave you, dear reader? Oh, how much you want to become like me, don’t you? I must confess something. A claim that will outright disappoint you, or perhaps make you happy.

I do not exist.

It’s true. I’m just a fictional character, in this fictional piece of work written by someone. I think he intended me to be some sort of satirical symbol to describe certain actual people in his world? The point is, there is no such thing as a person like me. There has never been someone like me in history, and there never will be in the future. No one person can have their works be beloved by all, it’s frankly impossible. 

So, let me finish my metaphor I started earlier: The words I write hold more merit than, well, no one. It’s all based on the perspective on other people, as subjective as--er, well, I suppose my metaphor engine can only run for so long. But my point is there is no objectivity in writing. 

But who am I kidding? Then why do some works fare better than others? Would not all works be equal in popularity? Perhaps some works do better because they have a certain appeal to the aspects of our human condition. Very complicated stuff, my brain hurts thinking about it. But believe me, it’s not too important. Just write whatever you want. Just like how I can write anything I want, you can too. 

If you write, keep writing. If you dream, keep dreaming. But do it for yourself, and for people you know will like it. Not money, not fame, not to be one of the literary greats. If you put enough passion and thought into a work that makes it an absolute masterpiece, then great! But it has to be natural. And the only criteria for making it good is if people like it. Seriously! They can claim your work has cultural significance, it started a new genre, or that it’s relevant for all time, but all that can be explained simply by them just liking your piece. So, if you can make people love absolute gibberish, someway, somehow, then your work can be considered a masterpiece.

pozndsangmeotuzasndgnzxckhbosuaghuorhgurhguadshug.

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