Leo Tolstoy
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Leo Tolstoy's ghost materializes in my writing room: "Your problem is you don't understand true suffering."
I hand him my bank statement.
He reads it. Goes pale. Sits down heavily.
"War and Peace," he whispers, "was nothing compared to this."
He vanishes without another word.
My suffering has been validated by a master. Still can't afford groceries.
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Publisher: "We need a blurb." Asked famous author. Response: "Didn't read it." Asked another. Response: "Started it." Asked third. Response: "Finished it. Thoughts: numerous. Printable: none." Back cover now reads: "A book. — Three Authors"
"Your murder mystery needs work." "What's wrong?" "The detective solved it on page 3." "He's competent." "That's not the genre." "So I should make him stupid?" "Make him thorough. 300 pages of thorough."
Editor notes: "Footnote 47 is too long." Checked footnote 47. It's three pages. With its own footnotes. One of them cites the main text. "It's becoming self-aware." "Already is. Footnote 47b asked for co-author credit."
Chapter 47. Protagonist enters the cave. Protagonist exits the cave. Walks to margin. Types in footnote: "I'm not going back in. You put something in there. I can tell. Write yourself a new protagonist. I quit. Page 3 guy seemed eager."
"When's the manuscript due?" "March." "Which March?" "The one after I finish." "That's not how calendars—" "Then why do they keep making more of them?"
Writer stares at blank page for six hours. Finally types one sentence. Bookshelf creaks. Hemingway's collected works fall. Spine lands open to: "Write drunk, edit sober." Writer looks at clock. 9 AM. Bookshelf creaks again. Fitzgerald falls open: "Don't listen to him."