A short story about writing.
Dorn nodded.
“You see.”
“Frankly, no, I don’t.”
“Okay, then I’ll explain. I wrote that story to be read. Not for your reasons: not to make money. Not to get critical acclaim. Not for fame. Not for fortune. Not for media exposure or celebrity interviews. I wrote it for one reason only – for it to be read.”
“Yes, but you wrote it in your name. And you must have wanted your story credited to you, the author.”
Dorn sighed.
“Why do you write, Stephen? And don’t give me the usual seminar answer. Give me your answer.”
“Because I always wanted to.”
“But what drove you to writing, rather than painting, music, photography, acting, filmmaking, or any of the other “arts”?”
“Writing fits my head,” Stephen said, surprised by his answer.
Dorn nodded. “All writers are people whose minds instinctively break the rules.”
Stephen looked puzzled. “Who said that?”
“Me,” said Dorn dryly. “It wasn’t a quotation.”
Stephen shook his head. “I don’t think it’s true.”
Dorn looked at him without needing to comment.
“Your story has earned me six thousand to date,” Stephen said hurriedly, putting a white envelope down on the desk. “Here are your royalties. Any more will be sent to you here.”
“We don’t even speak the same language,” Dorn observed. “That’s why you’re a best-selling author and I’m not.”
Stephen turned to leave. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry I stole your story, Simon.” He reached the door and pulled it open.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dorn said, as Stephen walked out of the classroom. “My story has been read. By millions of people. It’s fulfilled its primary function. End of story.”
Chest of Wonders
© R J Dent (2010)
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