The Noun

I have just decided that it will be a pretty good idea for me to write a book.  The reasons this is a pretty good idea for me to do are as follows:

1.     People who write books are very rich.

2.     I have things to say, some of which are literary in nature. 

3.     I don’t have a lot of money at the moment.

I realize now that when inspiration raps suggestively on your door with her brass and mahogany walking stick, you not only have to invite her in, but you have to offer her a comfy spot on your polarbearskin rug and a huge mug of vintage red vino.  You have to cozy up next to her.  You have to turn on the charm.  Later, as the night progresses, if you can convince Inspiration it’s not the worst idea ever, you make the switch to forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor.  If all goes well, before you know it, you are licking granules of salt off each other’s moist genitalia and gulping down amber shots of tequila together, crawling across the hallway through a curtain of beads to the hide-a-bed in your spare bedroom where you proceed to do it doggy-style twelve times over, until your penis is raw and throbbing and almost falling off and her vagina has been rubbed totally smooth and flat like a stone on the beach.  Afterwards, you make sure to give her an old sweatshirt and some clean boxers to sleep in so she’s comfortable.  You leave a glass of water and two Aspirins on the nightstand.  You give her money for a cab in the morning, but not too much money, because too much money could possibly make Inspiration feel like a ho.  Then, when she’s gone, you relax and let out the fart that you’ve been painfully holding in for over nine hours and you smoke an old wooden pipe packed with hashish and drink some rare exotic coffee from Botswana and know full well that you have gotten exactly what it is that you needed to get at this particular juncture in your life—which, I don’t care who you are, is a nice and fulfilling way to feel.

Certainly, there are those of you out there who know precisely what I’m talking about, and you, no doubt, will be the precious few who understand my passionate intent, then, to write my book in manner that renders it an enduring piece of art.  The reasons I have decided that my book will endure are as follows:

1.     The best books, as far as I can tell, have always withstood the test of time.

2.     The longer a book is around, the more money it will make.

3.     I don’t have a lot of money at the moment.

As a point of clarification, it should be known that by “enduring piece of art” I, of course simply mean, “a book that will continue to be read many eons from now in a future when literature is consumed via high-tech holograms rather than typewritten pages.”  Clearly, in order to appeal so universally—across cultures and generations and advances in holographic paper—this book must be about Life, encapsulating all of the intricacies and complexities that life has to offer.  Everyone should be able to easily relate to this subject matter, because everyone is, after all, alive.[1]

You’re probably asking yourself, what makes me so special that I should be able to write a whole book?  What gives me the right to fill up so many pages with words and then number the pages sequentially and commission some semi-known name in the world of oil painting to come up with an awesome cover idea?  And the answer, quite honestly, is I have every right to do such a thing.  For I have recognized inspiration.  I have paid attention to the soft rapping at my front door.  And in this way I am infinitely more special than the next guy.  We who put pencil to paper have already separated ourselves from the rest, if only because we have taken that first step.  Watch for us, and join us if you wish.  We are the ones in the expensive clothes, with the Mexican alcohol on our lips, and the spicy smell of sex lingering victoriously about our pubes.