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I obtain much pleasure from writing.
Also from reading books.
Literature is the greatest art form in the world.
And so I imagine a writer living in a small efficiency apartment in the southern part of the United States.
A third-floor apartment, 33 steps up black cast iron stairs in a back alley.
The apartment has a main bed/living-room and a chair, a small kitchen, a tiny refrigerator, a stove, a small bathroom.
No television, no cell phone, no computer.
But the writer has a typewriter and an old radio setting on a small table with a lamp next to it.
He has a few tattered books, some clothes, an abstract painting on the wall, not much else.
The man has loved literature since he was a small boy.
Escaping into stories and novels and picture books.
But he is also a man of action, not a wimp.
He lifts weights regularly and occasionally gets into brutal fist fights in crappy bars.
The man has been writing ever since the age of 11; and found his “literary voice” at a young age.
Every day the man sits at his typewriter and writes for hours – brilliant short stories and minimal poems come reeling off his typewriter.
There is a primitive beauty to the prose in his stories, a roughness to the visage of his piercing minimal poems, all of it fresh and compelling and packed with genuine emotion, which showcases his unique perspective of the world.
He sends his work out to magazines and journals once a week by regular mail.
And soon he finds that the literary game is NOT RIGGED.
Editors and other writers actually RECOGNIZE and appreciate his literary genius.
They publish his poems and stories in their magazines and quickly he gains the respect and attraction of literary agents and five major NY publishers.
Three small books come out in rapid succession: a novella, a book of short stories, a book of minimal poems. They gain mostly positive reviews in the best periodicals in spite of the revolutionary way the young writer has re-evaluated and almost “attacked” modern literature.
The writer receives large advances and generous royalty checks and moves out of his tiny efficiency apartment.
He gets married and buys a large house and an expensive sports car and continues writing every single day.
And the writer does not become an alcoholic, he does not develop a horrible drug habit, he does not commit suicide.
He only works harder at his writing and fully nurtures his devastating talent.
One summer he decides to buy an old laptop computer equipped with only a primitive word processor and a spell check – no other programs.
He writes a 40,000-word brutalist novel in two months that becomes a true classic of southern gothic literature.
And the writer goes on to become one of the greatest authors America has ever produced and wins numerous major awards and becomes a multi-millionaire.
The End.