Untouched books crowded his shelves, shiny leather spines and faded first editions, meticulously dusted and never read. A man in his position had to keep up appearances. He truly wanted people to think as highly of him as he did of himself. The bookcases made a fabulous backdrop for his picture to be taken for dust jackets and interviews. People expected him to be well read and he had, on more than one occasion, stated that he was indeed a voracious reader. In truth, he was a reader that never cracked a book other than his own. He needed to be able to answer questions regarding his work after all.
Yes, he was a writer that didn’t write. He was regarded as a prolific writer though after the fame and acclaim of his first novel he had delegated. He didn’t have the time or inclination for the tedious process of writing; though he surely had the talent if need be, but he had people for that. His time was better spent being seen, being heard, being well thought of and sought after.
6 responses to “He only plays one…”
Okay, interesting story indeed. Another fake life. I think you’re hitting all the buttons on today’s issues, of lies and falseness, in your poems and this great story.
You are too kind! Thanks though
Very much a comment on the times we live in. Fine story.
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Appreciate the reblog!