The Serious Writer Tracks His Stats
by Kevin Myrick
The serious writer sat in front of his computer, a slave to the machine. He sat and watched, waited for the next ding from the speakers to let him know he had a comment on a story. A star for his good work was better than the best high.
He waited for the next message from a friend, an e-mail from a contact or the phone call from the editor full of praise. "What a fantastic story!" was all he needed to read or to hear from someone to know he was a good writer. He had to hear it to believe it from anyone and everyone.
He wanted, needed the numbers to go higher and higher day by day until everyone had read every word he'd ever written. It drove the man to the edge and pushed him over.
Every time the computer let out a loud ding he foamed at the mouth, perfectly trained in the Pavlovian way. Somehow the serious writer kept it up until finally the computer made a sound he never heard before one day; he watched the smoke bellow out from the insides like steam on a cold day from a fresh kill. He screamed so loud in agony at the loss a neighbor called the police with the thought that someone was being murdered. The officers kicked down his door and saw him half naked, the computer clutched against his chest. They carried him away in cuffs to the mental hosptial as he yelled "I NEED STATS! PLEASE! JUST GIVE ME THE STATS!"
He waited for the next message from a friend, an e-mail from a contact or the phone call from the editor full of praise. "What a fantastic story!" was all he needed to read or to hear from someone to know he was a good writer. He had to hear it to believe it from anyone and everyone.
He wanted, needed the numbers to go higher and higher day by day until everyone had read every word he'd ever written. It drove the man to the edge and pushed him over.
Every time the computer let out a loud ding he foamed at the mouth, perfectly trained in the Pavlovian way. Somehow the serious writer kept it up until finally the computer made a sound he never heard before one day; he watched the smoke bellow out from the insides like steam on a cold day from a fresh kill. He screamed so loud in agony at the loss a neighbor called the police with the thought that someone was being murdered. The officers kicked down his door and saw him half naked, the computer clutched against his chest. They carried him away in cuffs to the mental hosptial as he yelled "I NEED STATS! PLEASE! JUST GIVE ME THE STATS!"
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Author's Note
Inspired in some part (only in thought) by Finnegan's serious writer stories. I will say my mind needed a break from my usual stuff and produced this. I do what the muse commands, especially when bored. Enjoy!
Other stories by Kevin Myrick
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I would say "What a fantastic story!" but I haven't read it.
I would "A star for his good work" but since I haven't read it. I would rescue you but officers are kicking down my door over the Heat's last second loss primal scream.
By then again, no, I'm in front of my computer, a slave to the machine, waiting for MY ding.
Laughed all through this
Oh, Kevin, you so totally nailed this! A great satire on the pain / reward syndrome
fave, indeed
I swear to God I will never look at the Recommended List again! Susan's right; you nailed it.
Thanks for the comments!
Kevin,
I laughed and laughed. There is something so great about the way this site makes writers hang onto their knees, hunched over, on eye shut, the other peering out from under lowered lid at the computer screen, keening, praying to the god or gods, or the magical writing fairies, for those comments to appear, like golden totems, the favs to rise upwards!
Totally enjoyable
This is scary. Is there a support group one can join? Do they serve donuts? Is that all there is ... numbers? Oh, jeeezuss. I can't look. I won't look. I......
Ding! Here’s another comment: I like this story - it’s seriously funny! *.