Author Go Home

Leave me to my tea party

When I’m a big shot, all my covers will look like this

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I have nothing against Author. I just don’t want Author in my life.

I don’t have any advice for Author. I don’t think there’s anything Author should or shouldn’t be doing. I have no criticism, no praise. I don’t care if Author is coked to the gills or stone-cold sober when Author writes.

I am not interested.

But that’s the thing about celebrity culture and the media technology machine — it keeps shoving the same people into focus over and over again, and I’m just trying to have a tea party (green tea, cold brew) with my friends.

And shiiiiiit.

There’s Author poking their head through the kitchen window saying, Hi, guys, can I come in?

No, Author! Go home!

But Author is already crawling through the doggy door like a famished raccoon. Barricade the door! Nail it shut.

Too late! Author broke through. It’s not really Author in the flesh. It’s ten thousand robots, clones, wannabes, stans, fans, and sycophants all wearing Author’s oozing flesh mask. Squirted out from the rubber teats of the thresher that turns individual artistic creative visions into mass-produced soycornwheat products.

Run! The Authorlings have flooded the living room. They’re shambling upstairs. They’re going into the bathroom and checking the medicine cabinets, peering at the prescriptions to see what the deal is. Is this guy on meds? Is he sick? Stupid?

Why doesn’t he like Author?

Why doesn’t he want to know about Author?

Isn’t he afraid that his ignorance of Author will hurt him in some way? Must he not study success in order to emulate it?

Now the Authorlings are sticking their gooey hands in the toilet, dredging up little flecks of fecal matter, trying to analyze the DNA — where’s the Author in this? There HAS to be some Author in this.

They’re on my laptop searching through my emails, my messages, my Steam library and Netflix watchlist. Surely, he must have read some Author somewhere. Surely, he’s made some kind of comment or formed some kind of opinion about Author.

He must love and adore Author. Or think Author is overrated. At the very least, he must acknowledge Author. He must feed data to the algorithmic gyre spitting up the spume of Author’s unceasing fortune.

You see, I could slap on any name for Author. Any of the big ones. Anyone trendy. And instantly, this post would transform from some kind of strange parable into content about Author. It would be tacked onto the great cellulitic arse of Author, to enjoy the swinging and jiggling of their monumental market weight. The seismic tremors would set the algorithm atwitter and deliver throngs of Authorlings in my direction. A black hole warps space and time and mentioning Author will drag in all the many minuscule bodies hoping to mimic or merge or derive some kind of trajectory in life from the circular orbit of that cosmic mass.

But the thing is, I don’t want to do that. I want to have my tea party with my friends.

I wish no ill will upon Author. I just want Author out of my life. I want to close the blinds and turn on the white noise machine and drown out the media caterwauling.

OMG, have you heard of Author?

Author’s a genius.

Why aren’t you reading Author?

You are MISSING OUT if you aren’t reading Author.

You’re reading Author all wrong.

Ten reasons to pick up Author’s latest RIGHT NOW.

Well, actually I heard Author isn’t that great.

Author did this. Author did that.

Author is a 19-foot-tall caterpillar whose bristles are made of rebar, and Author’s great lumbering arms gather up virgins who throw themselves upon Author’s altar and impales the virgin corpses on the rebar bristles and the ichor drips into the twisted crevices of Author’s unfathomable being and grants Author eternal life.

I guess that last one is kind of interesting, but I still don’t care about Author.

You know, in place of Author, I could put Brand or Musician or Athlete or even Politician. But I’m a writer. So that’s the coat of paint, that’s the patina, that’s the surface skin and nerve layer that affects me, that penetrates my sense of demureness and privacy and focus on my own life.

Author did this. Why didn’t you do what author did? Author is now a bestseller. Author has 200,000,000,000 subscribers. You need to do what Author did. Now Author has fallen from grace. Author is a dry turd. Author is a wet fart. Author is a god. Author is dead but spawn of Author is still publishing under Author’s name.

Yeah, no, I’m tempted. Don’t get me wrong. It’s very effective. You know that’s the point and the problem. Author is everywhere.

The me in this little vignette tried to have his tea party and only a few sentences in, Authorlings barged through the doggy door. They ransacked my imaginary bedroom; they ate my leftovers and scrawled “one star, not like Author” on the walls. Authorlings are in the yard, staring unblinking until you stare back. Tempted, threatened, bludgeoned into acknowledging Author.

Turn on the TV: there’s Author.

Turn on the radio: an interview with Author.

Phone, internet? Author, Author. Going to the doctor’s for backbone installation surgery? There’s Author on the cover of Media Dipshit magazine. Going outside? Bam, a plane flies by and writes Author’s name with chemtrails in the sky. Oh, there goes a bus with Arthur’s stupid face plastered on the side.

Author is a cultural icon. Why aren’t YOU author? Why aren’t you working (in the way we proscribe), writing (ditto) and most importantly spending money to be more like Author.

Well, I’m not Author. I don’t want to be Author. I don’t want to have anything to do with author. I want to be me.

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