Confessions of a Writer
“I swear, if you come one step closer, I’ll cut your heart out with these
scissors and then kill myself!” Mahnaz was clutching the scissors so tightly that a
drop of sweat ran through her fingers like melted steel. Taimor paused while
gazing into her eyes. The lovers’ destinies were tangled in the moment. The
sound of her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Life and death were blended in split
seconds.
Taimor sensed the hesitation in her eyes and stormed to seize the blades,
but she determined to take revenge, turned her hand a half a circle and stabbed
him in the chest. Blood spewed from her lover. She was petrified by the cold look
on her man’s face. The sharp edges of scissors cut the life string of the two
lovers. Taimor collapsed into his blood and Mahnaz wept bloody tears for her
loss. A tender love burned to ashes by the flames of jealousy.”
-------------------------
This was the final paragraph of my romance novel. One filled with love,
betrayal and crime, a masterpiece, a tragedy to place my name among literary
legends. As soon I finished the last paragraph, proudly I gave it to my wife and
waited for her heartwarming critique. She reluctantly put down her nail file, blew
onto her nails scattering dust on my novel, and plucked the manuscript off my
hand as if holding a filthy rat by the tail. She then reluctantly glanced through the
pages like a lazy pupil forced to do her homework.
Later in the day, she sighed, gave me a look filled with contempt and moved
her lips in a funny way and said, “Honey, this is nothing short of a cheap
melodrama. Do you have to become a writer? Can’t you make money like
everyone else?"
I was speechless and didn’t know how to escape the room until she picked up
the phone to call her hairdresser and forgot my melting presence. I swiftly
grabbed the manuscript and darted out, thinking to myself, what the hell does she
know about literature?
Then I gave the manuscript to some of our well-versed friends. The very first
one commented, “The artistic value of your novel is below zero.”
“This is an insult to literature. Thank God all great writers died before seeing
this.” The second one said.
“Don’t worry if you don't get noticed. Fame always comes after death.”
Another friend remarked with a stinging smirk on his face.
I turned a deaf ear to everyone’s unkind critique as I was determined to
become a writer. A colleague, Ernie (Ernest Hemingway), said once, “Half of all
writers quit writing when they hear their first criticisms.” I was already in top fifty
percent.
I made a handful of copies of the manuscript and sent them to publishers.
Months passed and none contacted me so I called them. One asked my
name. I replied. Asked about the published works which I delicately avoided a
response. When he found out I wasn’t a published writer, he explained to me as a
teacher does to a slow student, “You know, I am a published writer myself and I
have several writer friends. As a matter of fact, every Wednesday night we get
together and discuss our works. I am telling you all this so you know I have
authority in the world of literature. And I don’t mean to be harsh but frankly
speaking, we cannot jeopardize our reputation by investing on your work.
Capitalizing on something like this is definitely out of question. Nowadays we have
too many writers and too few readers. Anyone who runs away from home wants to
be a writer.” He droned on and I slammed down the phone.
The only publisher who showed interest was the one who asked me for a
$25,000 non-refundable security deposit. He explained, “Your drama is powerful.
If a reader under the influence of your novel commits a crime of passion, we may
get sued. The deposit is for insurance premium and possible litigation costs. We
only require deposits from powerful writers.”
Then I sent my work to literary magazines. Days and weeks and months
passed and no one even sent a simple rejection letter. Once again, I had no
choice but to call a few editors and follow up. One swore on his mother’s milk that
he hadn’t received my submission. The next one I called said his journal was on
the brink of bankruptcy and he was opening a strip bar instead.
The most peculiar conversation I had was with a prestigious magazine editor
who said, “Your story stinks!" I politely requested a clarification and he continued,
“Your story smells like a rat. It’s politically slanted. We are an independent
magazine and not affiliated with any political organizations, therefore, we can’t
publish your propaganda.”
It was stunning. How could my romance novel get such an ugly review? In the
midst of my astonishment suddenly I realized mentioning that the pair of scissors-
the murder weapon- was made in Communist China. That must have been the
reason why the publisher thought the novel was politically biased. That was easy
to fix, the scissors could be made in the USA. They would cost the killer a little
more but her poor victim surely wouldn't care what brand of scissors was tearing
his heart out. But before I could get a chance to offer this compromise, the
publisher called me a Commie bastard and hung up.
The disappointing truth was that for very odd reasons I was not getting
published. My only consolation was that in this misery I was not alone. There
were so many unpublished writers desperately looking for readers. After months
of exhaustive research and in-depth study of the commercialized nature of the
literary market, I considered establishing an underground organization for
unpublished writers. One that could organize obscure writers and make their
dream comes true. Why not? Such a unique society could use the collective
efforts of these desperate writers and expose their work to the public. The most
appropriate name for this secret brotherhood was The Average Talented Writer’s
Society.
This secret fraternity could easily recruit an army of desperate writers. The
only criterion to join the society was the proof of complete failure due to the
writers’ average talent. All prospective members had to prove that the total
number of their readers –excluding immediate family members-was fewer than the
total number of their fingers and toes. I knew that the mental state of my fellow
writers after consistent failure would empower them to do anything to help the
society achieve its goals. Abject failure was our most precious asset.
It was stipulated in the constitution of The Average Talented Writers’ Society
that if the writings of a fellow writer suddenly get noticed and her number of
readers increased drastically, her talent and her IQ would promptly be scrutinized
and her loyalty to the society would be questioned. She would then immediately
and without notice be expelled and a below-average writer would be promoted to
full-member status.
To achieve our ambitious objectives, I adopted some unorthodox tactics that
could fit into two major categories: peaceful and violent.
Peaceful methods were mainly aimed to appeal to the reader’s sense of
compassion or greed. I was willing to train all mediocre writers to pose as
homeless beggars if they had to and hand their fiction to bystanders in the bitter
cold and reward the readers who had not tossed their novels in the trash before
finishing them.
However, despite my mellow nature, I was willing to instruct the society
members to resort to violence if our peaceful campaign failed. We would invade
radio and television stations to recite our fine literature on air (before the police
stormed the building). We could even kidnap innocent bystanders and read them
our novels before releasing them unharmed. The idea was to promote fine
literature at any cost.
After careful consideration of every aspect of initiating such grass-root
movement, I passionately invited my fellow unknown writers to join. Contrary to my
expectations however, this process was slow and painful. No one showed interest
in joining The Average Talented Writer’s Society. They seemed to be insulted
merely by my invitation. In a few months my literary movement failed miserably. I
insulted many friends and created countless enemies. My continuous failure in
every endeavor adversely affected my marriage. My wife, who could not face our
friends anymore, left the house to go to the cleaners one morning and never
returned.
Why? I kept asking myself over and over again during my lonely and
sleepless nights. Then I remembered the advice I had carelessly ignored a friends
gave me once, “Don’t worry if you don't get noticed. Fame always comes after
death.” What an epiphany. No one was reading my novel because I was still
breathing. Suddenly my streak of bad luck made perfect sense. Wasn't it true that
brilliant writers, musicians, and painters lived in misery and died in poverty and
obscurity? Obviously everyone was anxiously waiting for me to die to read my
novel. The critics were just itching to see me in permanent horizontal position so
they could praise my work. Editors were waiting to read my obituary before they
could publish my fiction. Why should I be an exception to the rule? History was
repeating itself and who was I to stand in its way. What was I waiting for? I had no
conceivable reason to wake up in the morning anyway. Every friend of mine had
turned to my sworn enemy. I had lost my job, wasted all of our life savings to
promote my novel and establishing the damn writers’ society. The truth was I had
received several death threats from writers whom I‘d invited to join and I was too
scared to leave the house. I had no choice but to let the history run its natural
course.
But I couldn’t leave the material world without writing my memoir. I had to write
my experience for future generations of writers. So, I did and the result was what
you are reading and I appropriately called it “Confessions of a Writer.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
-------------------------------------
As I was standing in a long line to face my creator and receive my
punishment, I noticed a writer friend who had recently lost his life in a car
accident. He had the Inferno Times opened to the Art Section as if he was
expecting this meeting. He could hardy hide his sneer as he handed me the
paper. In the “Successful Mortals” column of the paper I saw a picture of my wife
and her complete biography. She was praised as a brilliant writer. Before letting
me open my mouth, he informed me that after I died, she’d published the
“Confessions of a Writer “to rave reviews and the first line of the memoir read,
“To the sweet memory of my late husband.”