Have you ever wondered why World-Famous Writers seem to have so many brilliant ideas, while those of us who might be (as far as publishing goes) lesser luminaries must needs lag about here, struggling to find brilliant ideas?
The first thing you must know is that all rich writers are famous, and all famous writers are rich. If they have one but not the other, they are quickly (and secretly) initiated into The Writing Conspiracy, where (for an exorbitant sum plus at least one choice soul) they begin their new lives of extraordinary luxury; the Conspiracy make sure that if there’s anything they don’t have, they get it.
Again, you might have heard that a particularly famed writer lives in New York and still takes the subway, or that another lives in Maine in a perfectly ordinary home. These are, of course, body doubles, hired from sinister organizations, lulling us all into the sense that everything is normal.
But it isn’t.
They never take subways; they never take cabs; they only take cars unless they feel like riding in a 1962 Phantom Landau for the variety. Either they take jets (more like flying spacefaring palaces, really) which soar above ordinary airspace so as to never be burdened by mere terrestrial laws); or else they are propelled deep beneath the surface of waters in golden submarines pulled by mighty Kraken; or, if they really must go somewhere through less than totally pleasurable methods, they Apparate. All famous writers can do so; they were specially trained.
They do not live in those houses within which they take interviews, with the exception of those who live in extraordinary luxury or remodelled ancient Greek temples or otherwise utterly ridiculous spaces. There is an ongoing that even wealthy writers live as we do, only, perhaps, if their tastes take them in that direction, slightly larger.
No. No Sultan’s palace in a pre-1980s fairytale film, no futurized sentient living space of science fiction, no ordinary palace on Earth would prepare you for the unbridled luxury of these spaces. They are vast, and full of servants; and yet each servant spent a decade training so that when the Writer wants silence, silence reigns; when the Writer has the merest whim, be it for a cup of tea or a glass of the brandy Napoleon drank on the night of his breath, squadrons of teams are sent forth to make it so. Neither expense nor equipment is spared; every piece of technology mined from Area 51 is utterly in evidence at this time.
There is a Price, of course.
The dark shadowy Cabal (is that redundant? I mean, I suppose one couldn’t say “the dark and yet extremely well-lit, shadowless Cabal) – the Illuminati who control all things learned this long ago, when they first studied alchemy: words are The Philosopher’s Stone (or “The Magic Shiny Heavy Rock”, if you’re in America.) The right words actually alter reality. I don’t mean this as a metaphor, or even magic. There are utterly perfect words and phrases, and none of us will ever write them, for they are produced under the most opulent conditions any humans have ever known, an organic Inspiration Catalyst, only to be immediately snatched up by The Conspiracy and flicked out into the Universe, to become the bricks which make up all of Being.
Do the Writers themselves conspire? I don’t know. Perhaps some know precisely the nature of what they do; others might be deceived, told that they’re simply being supported by extremely wealthy and eccentric fans.
Except at the top, of course.
The very top is controlled by a Triumvirate of precisely three writers, none of whom I may name. Each one battled a hundred others to reach this spot; each is the master of some genre; and by the words that each of these beings permit into public parlance, our entire Universe is defined.
So it is that the most Wealthy and Famed of our number live lives of near-total pleasure and precise levels of stimulation which give forth bountiful and endless inspiration.
Because that’s what was decreed by the last set of words to influence Humanity.
…but this fate is not inevitable.
No-one could monitor every word ever written. Nor do they try; they desire their control, but the luxury of their surroundings might, perhaps, have stolen from their hearts a certain fire; it’s difficult to hunger to create when you never, ever know any kind of hunger.
They have overstepped themselves.
They’re watching each other, each one convinced that, at any time, one of them might upset all the rest.
They’re not watching you.
Go write the words.
Go write the words which change the world.
And when they come to take you off to their Writerly Heaven, go along, but don’t consume everything they offer, be it food or drink or theatricals or other stimulations for which we mortals have no name. Treat it like Fairyland, or the Underworld. Stay a little hungry. Hold close to your heart a certain discontent.
Discontentment is the truest food of the soul, and the yearning soul powers machines of infinite making.
(It’s also 17.84% funnier than stuff written by those who are completely satisfied. I don’t know why that is. It’s just a thing.)
There is a better world, and the world is here; we need only choose to shape it.
Be the traitor in Writer’s Heaven.
Be the trickster who steals a pinch of the fires of Inspiration and brings it back to us.
Be the Villain who hijacks a caravan of pure Inspiration, and we’ll buy it from you with the sweetest words and the most unbelievable of worlds.
Oh, and, uh, while you’re off helping all the other writers create wonders hitherto-unknown…
…I might just steal your Leviathan.
After all, what good is writing without conflict?
You be the Chosen One. I’ll be the Golem in the Gears. Don’t fret.
If I truly believe in your heroism, then I know you’ll need an enemy to make you stronger.
That’s why I’m not the one fighting the Cabal. I want to fight the winner.
That’s my hunger.
Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN“.
And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.