Wednesday, September 1, 2004

Lux Motel, Ibiza, Spain -

Our subject wears so well the role of a writer – the worn cardigan sweaters, the brown-checked loden coat complete with leather elbow patches, the almost-expired Oxfords – that he is, at times, almost able to convince himself that he is one. But he isn’t. No, not this guy. To be a writer you would have to actually write something first.

Okay, that’s unfair, and might even be a little misleading. Allow me to clarify; it’s not that our subject never writes. No, he does, in fact, write – just not often or very well.

But look, we’re in luck! he’s writing right now, all hunched over his laptop computer, bathed in its soft blue glow, a pile of dishevelled wavy black hair spilling forward over his horn-rimmed glasses. Ah, yes, a writer, indeed. Watch how he first types furiously, then stops to think, stroking his stubbled chin, pondering, contemplating, ruminating, before resuming his work at a maddening pace.

If we were to look over his shoulder – which we won’t because it would be the epitome of rudeness to disturb a writer at work – we would find that he’s filled the entire screen with writing. Not bad! we would think. But upon further inspection we would find that the writing is not so good – correction - is bad, even. One might even call it the worst writing one has ever read - if one were wont to be so honest.

But wait! the subject appears agitated. Let’s give him some room, shall we?

All of a sudden the writer highlights all the words on the screen and lets his finger hover over the delete button momentarily before bringing it down with a satisfying click.

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