If You Give An Author A Pencil


If you give an author a pencil, he’ll want to write a story.
Pacing the room, scribbling fast, he’ll read every syllable.
First you won’t understand; confusion leads to pulled hair.
Then you’ll nod, and smile, “Oh yea, I get it. Creative.”
Critiquing his manuscript makes him anguish; he’ll dash for the trash can. Gasp, pull the pages out, and brush the coffee grounds off, crying how much he loves it.
Scotch is known to sooth pain, he’ll pass out on the floor. When he wakes at three a crayon under the couch inspires illustration and screams.  To shut him up, you ask to see.
Worried of stolen ideas he puts the pictures in a secret folder. But ego compels him to show you, and concludes he needs to re-write the entire story. It’s just what the story needs!
First he’ll make it happen on a lost space station. Then he’ll kill the main character. He might even make it a romance about a man named Balderdash Pingree.
Weeks of rewrites pass. After the revision, he’ll want to go to a seminar for inspiration. Someone needs to go along, he’ll step on his own foot if left alone.
All the published people are there, stars sparkle in his eyes, but what shines the brightest is the complimentary bar. He’s the leader, right?
Misery loves company, and the bar tender makes a mean fuzzy navel, confidence sits in the sidecar and yells to drive faster. He’ll put his monkey suit on and you’ll attach a tether. The monkey suit reminds him, people ride the elevators. He’ll want to go talk.
Unaware of personal space, he’ll press all the buttons, and ask everyone who gets on if they are an agent. He’ll push them a card, and rant how publishing is unfair. Belts make great handles, you’ll pull him away.
Breaking free he’ll follow a famous author slurring for an in. Security sees and escorts him out.
On the way home, he’ll hang his head out the car window to cool his tongue and yell, “Fast food soaks up alcohol.”
At home he empties the bag out onto the floor, spilling ketchup.
Seeing ketchup on the floor, reminds him of the crayon under the couch.
He’ll ask you for paper. And chances are, he’ll want to write a murder mystery.

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