The Author - Fiction

 

I wanted to be like him in so many ways. I wanted the arrogance, the pride of knowing that others looked up to me, the feeling that no one could touch me with their lower-class hands. I wanted to see my name splashed across book covers displayed in New York and Paris. I wanted to know that when I died, like he did several years ago, that I too would continue to be admired and feared. Instead, as I walked down the busy street and stopped in front of the small bookstore, I decided that I wanted something greater. I wanted to learn about the world and why people couldn't get along. I wanted to make a change with no expectation of getting a pat on the back. I wanted to be human and not a god. I peered at the display of his books behind the window and then walked in to purchase one of his books. As I checked out, the all-black-wearing bookseller asked me in a snobbish tone why I wanted to read an asshole, a person who had no concept of what it was like to live for yourself. I replied that everyone had the right to think what they wanted to think. And I had the right to no longer make it my own life. I took my book and left for the park further down the street. While everyone else rushed off to their various destinations, I found a quiet spot to read. Okay you asshole, I thought to myself, show me. You're no longer here to defend yourself; all we have left are your words. I opened the book and dove into his mind. 

(dedicated to an author)