Tagged: creative-writing

Well, Mr. Buckley, it seems that it’s your time to go.

Any last words? Are you ready to go?

“Yup.”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The EKG flatlined.

Doctor: I’m sorry, Mrs. Buckley, Dennis has passed on.

Widow, sobbing: Well, did he… did he say anything?

Doctor: Yup.

Widow: What did he say doctor? I’m pleading you, tell me what final words passed through my beloved’s lips before he died.

Doctor: Yup.

Widow: Um, okay, but would you please just tell me? It’d really appreciate it if you just told me what Dennis said.

Doctor: Yup.

Widow: Please!! I don’t think I can take any more of this. Can’t you see I’m grieving? I’m a widow now, and what of the children? Of our affairs? Won’t you just tell me, doctor, won’t you please tell me what my sweet husband said before he passed away from this life?

Doctor: I told your husband that his vitals were dropping and asked him if he was ready to go. He said yup, and then he was gone. Do you have anything to say about that, Mrs. B? Any questions?

Widow: Nope.

How many writers do you suppose live miserable little lives in obscurity?

Most I’d suppose.

Most. I suppose. What draws people to write? It’s not like it’s easy. It’s torture. Writing is. At least that’s my experience.

What draws people to write?

Yeah.

Is it not simply that those who desire to write, write?

No. See, that’s your basic low-IQ type answer. When you want to do something, you do it. People aren’t so simple. Maybe they are. I don’t know. Writing as an interest or hobby or craft or profession or whatever is like acting. You’re as likely to make it in Hollywood as you are making bestseller list. The probability of success in both endeavors is so low as to be laughable. You wonder why anyone’d even try.

I see.

I hate that. “I see.”

Why is that?

It’s one of those useless things people say when they don’t know what to say. No better than “interesting” or “that makes sense.” I hate them all.

I see.

No you don’t.

I don’t see? What am I not understanding?

You’re agreeing out of politeness. But inside that egg head of yours, you’re thinking, what the hell is he on about?

Please explain yourself properly then.

Fine. You have to be equal parts delusional and egotistical to call yourself a writer. Or an actor. Or a politician for that matter. Your ideas are so extraordinary, people should not only listen, but pay for them too? Your powers of pretending to be someone else are so moving that people should pay to watch you make believe? I don’t even know what to say for politicians. Politicians are weasels. You gotta think every politician self-hypnotizes themself to believe they’re a shepherd of the sheep.

Are you a shepherd or a sheep?

Neither. Or both. I don’t know. I’m a meat bag trying to do good. “Good” isn’t the right word but it’s the first word that comes to mind. My objective in life is to become less of a sucker today than I was yesterday. No more. No less. I am not wise. I know that about myself.

I see.

No. You don’t see a thing.