>>7300751I was in jail for some time and have crammed a lot of shitty books, nothing else to do there. Reading good books now just ends up in me copying their style, probably subconsciously, but I'll keep reading. I think analyzing masterpieces is a bit of long shot, as their levels are way, way out of a mortal's league. Even outright copying them is hard. I like Bryce Courtenay, and I've tried copying him, but you can't copy talent. It all turns to shit. You either have flow and style or don't.
Here's an excerpt from my short story.
“What is going on?! Is this it?” another wide-eyed commoner. “Is the world ending?!”
Nope, still got it. They have to hear me, to Hear me. Another person needs to literally hear me, I get it. I keep my mouth shut. Frenetically look for a piece of paper. A pencil, good. I am scared now. I've just realized that I won't be able to live a normal life. Ever. This part is still true. I will be silent and I will be lonely. Very lonely. My only conversation partner will be myself. No privacy. Ever. I am terrified.
I write down, “I think I might be the Voice of God. I don't know what to do. Help, please.” and show it to the first stranger I see. She runs away. I walk to the nearest church and show the note. The minister falls on his knees and prays. I go home and don't say a word. I wait for someone to come. A man in black, undoubtedly. CIA he says, but that's bullshit. I look at his badge. With a look of defiance I say to his face his own name. I hope it's real. Good luck, asshole, you're famous now.
He radios his partner outside and asks him if he heard that? He did. I am handcuffed, gagged and taken to an undisclosed location. They want to talk to me, but they can't. We write it everything out. Eventually, I need to eat. They uncork me. They look scared. I look smug and yell, “HELP ME. HELP ROBERT GOOBER. THE GOVERNMENT KIDNAPPED ME. I HAVE THE VOICE.” We all remember that one, turns out the loudness of my own voice matters – I'll make an excellent intergalactic opera singer. The realization that they should have left the room hits them too late. I am released. I thank them. I thank Everyone.
I am in Canada now, somewhere in Yukon. They airdrop me everything I ask for, plus free Internet. “Just don't start walking toward people, Goober.” It's not so bad.
Why am I writing all of this, now? The ear-plugged people approached me today at my retreat. Again. With a military escort, and a surgeon who was ready to sew my mouth shut, under anesthesia and all that. I am sure they'd love to put me to sleep forever, like a dog, and say it was an accident. Whoops, we killed the Voice. Care for the consequences? Oh, us humans. Killed Jesus first, now we've killed the Voice. Third time's probably gonna be the charm? Needless to say, I have politely shook my head. That's not why I am writing this. Blessed be the invention of the written word, that's why. Thank God I can Talk.
