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.”
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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
fingers scattering nail 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 cultured friends. The very first one commented, “The artistic
value of your novel is below zero.” The second said, “This is an insult to literature. I’m so glad all great
writers died before seeing this.” And the third one smirked, “Don’t worry if you don't get noticed. Fame
always comes after death.”
I turned a deaf ear to their unkind remarks; as I was determined to become a writer. A colleague, Ernie
(Ernest Hemingway), said once, “Fifty percent 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 answering. When he found out I wasn’t a published writer, he explained to me as a
teacher explains 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
this so you know I am an expert in this field. Frankly speaking, we cannot jeopardize our reputation by
publishing your work. Capitalizing on something like this is definitely out of question. Let’s put this way, we
have too many writers these days and too few readers. Nowadays everyone 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 several literary magazines. Months passed with no response. 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 associated with any political organizations, therefore, we can’t publish
your propaganda.”
It was astonishing. How could my romance novel get such a review? Suddenly I realized mentioning that
the scissors-the murder weapon- were 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 kind of scissors
were 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 commercial literary market, I
considered establishing an underground organization for unpublished writers. One that could organize
unknown writers and make their dreams 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 logical 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 criteria to join was the
proof of complete failure due to the writers’ average talent. The total number of their readers must be less
than the number of their fingers and toes. I knew for fact that the mental state of my fellow writers after
consistent failure would empower them to do anything to help the society achieve its goals. Failure was our
most precious asset.
It was stipulated in the constitution of the “The Average Talented Writers’ Society” that if the writings of a
fellow writer suddenly get noticed and her number of readers increases drastically, her talent and her IQ
would promptly be scrutinized and her loyalty to the society would be questioned. She would then
immediately be expelled and a below-average writer would be promoted to full-member status.
To achieve our goals, 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 my fellow obscure writers to pose as beggars if they had to and hand stories to bystanders in the
bitter cold or reward the readers who had not tossed our novels before reading them completely.
We would resort to violence if our peaceful campaign failed. We were willing to invade radio and television
stations to read our works on air (before the police storm the building). We could even kidnap innocent
bystanders and read romance novels to them before releasing them unharmed. The idea was to promote our
literature regardless of the consequences.
After careful consideration of every aspect of initiating such 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. This I could not understand.
In a matter of months, I insulted my 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 received from one of my friends, “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 failure 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 dead so they could praise my work. Magazine editors were waiting to read
my obituary so they could publish my novel over and over.
Why should I be an exception to the rule? History was repeating itself and who was I to stand in its way.
Why was I waiting for then? I had no conceivable reason to continue my miserable life anyway. My friends
had turned into enemies. I had lost my job, spent all of our savings to promote my novel and establishing the
damn writers’ society. I had even received several death threats from writers whom I had invited to join.
I was too scared to leave the house. I had no choice but to let the history run its natural course. I was anxious
to die and embrace fame.
But I couldn’t leave 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.”
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“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
As I was standing in a long line to face my creator and receive my punishment, I encountered a writer
friend who had recently lost his life in a car accident. He had the Inferno Times opened to the Art Section as
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 as she was praised as a
brilliant writer.
And 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.”