Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….
This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.
The World’s Greatest Writer
© F. P. Dorchak, 2002
“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.
“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.
The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”
At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”
“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.
“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”
And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.
Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.
Well, Canada, to be precise.
Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:
There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.
This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.
Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.
Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.
Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.
Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.
Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.
Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.
Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.
Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.
So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.
WWJD?
WWXD?
She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.
The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.
As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.
And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.
(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)
Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!
Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words
“He’s here!”
shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.
In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.
Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?
Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:
Where was the manuscript?!
Had he come without his words?!
Were they all to be so-callously jilted?
Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?
The crowd again held its collective breath.
He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.
Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.
“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”
Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.
“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”
And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.
Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:
Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.
The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.
The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.
The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.
Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.
Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.
And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.
At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.
But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.
Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.
Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.
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