The writer was busy writing, as always. Couldn’t afford any distraction. Wouldn’t agree to any speaking engagements, as many writers do.
He would receive copies of his books by courier, and these were piled up, all around him.
He was walled-in by his own books.
Not just busy: booked solid!
When he finished writing his autobiography, he realized how much he’d missed in life by concentrating on pure science, so he went back in time to force his past self to enjoy life.
The resulting autobiography was also a disaster — no accomplishments.
On his third try, he became a writer.
“I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“Everything!”
“Must be pretty long, then.”
“Not particularly, no. Actually, it’s probably going to be very short.”
“Then why aren’t you done yet?”
“It’s hard.”
“Ha! What’s so hard about writing a short novel?”
“Well, you try writing a short novel about Everything!”
They had burned his entire library!
Perpetual optimist, he thought, “I’ll just write some books of my own!”
So he started writing. He found he loved writing so much he couldn’t stop himself to even read what he wrote. He just kept writing.
Too bad everything he wrote was crap.
When the poet started writing his poem, he said to himself, “I will end it when it wants to. I am but a conduit through which the art flows.”
What he didn’t know was that once the poem has no more need for a conduit, that conduit ceases to be.
I kept telling him to write more simply, that it would lead to his readers actually being able to understand his stories, and maybe even liking them, for a change, but the man just wouldn’t listen and kept on writing one long run-on sentence, somehow afraid to reach the perio–