Gather ‘round for a story that was written by yours truly a year or two ago. I’d like to know what you think, so please comment with constructive criticism if you are able.
There once was a man who was called Steve by all his friends. His real name was Horace Milton Wagner. Personally, he liked Steve better. He worked in a telemarketing office and hardly ever made a sale. Outside of work, he’d go to his apartment and write novels. He’d try to, at the least. His dream was to get one published and be such a best-seller that he’d never have to write again. You see, he hated writing, so he never finished a book. He could hardly finish a chapter. His failures at being a writer caused him to be depressed.
Because of his depression, he went to a counselor who tried to get Steve to see that he really wasn’t a failure, that writing just wasn’t his thing. But Steve’s lifelong aspiration, you see, was to write a best-seller. He couldn’t stop writing, or else he’d never write a best-seller. If he didn’t write a best-seller, he’d never be truly happy.
He stopped going to counseling.
Steve decided to write another book, this time on how to write a non-best-seller book. He had high hopes for this one, I can tell you. Sadly, though, Steve never got to finish this book. He would never get to finish (or not finish, as the case may be) another book again because he died. You see, this is not Steve’s story. It’s not really about him at all, really. It’s about someone else entirely.