Okay, now it's two in the morning and I'm wide awake. Thanks, Scott! And you scared everyone away. Excellent.
See, everybody, this is what happens. Imagine what you just witnessed going on for hours, for days at a time. I probably just had another five years sliced off my lifespan. "Official Cause of death: Thunesian sclerosis."
"I can't allow you to be helpful, because then my own owness won't be my own!"
What did you just say? I'm sorry; I'm not mentally handicapped. I have it on good authority that I'm actually pretty intelligent. But I can't make head nor tail or what you're saying.
"Your assistance would have made a book that could not have been created by me."
What does that even mean? If you're doing all the talking, and I'm just there to record and transcribe, how in God's name are you not the creator? And what does it matter? You also didn't invent the computer that you would use to "create" your precious "creation," so doesn't that dilute the creativeness you're babbling about?
The only possible way you could have total creative control over writing the book would be if you stripped off your own skin and dried it to create parchment, chopped out a chunk of your tibia and carved it into a quill, and used your own blood as ink. Otherwise, honey--I hate to break it to you--someone else will have had a hand in your creativiest creation of all creationality.
Talking to someone makes it easier. The reason your wife is on your tail to write your book and you haven't gotten around to it is that IT'S HARD! Nonfiction is HARD! Sitting there all by yourself, trying to make it all come out on paper--especially if you don't write all the time--is a monumental task that requires so much time that those of us who actually write books are only capable of doing so if we have no lives. Our books are our lives.
It's an informed decision we make. Fathers, husbands, and touring musicians don't write books. It's simply not possible. We writers are solitary, because that's the only way it works.
Man, if I had a great story to tell and I had a pet writer offering to capture my thoughts by serving as a secretary and a sounding board and then turning all that raw material over so that I could then shape it into what I wanted, I'd jump at the chance. When I send you my latest book, you'll be astonished at the size of it, and you'll wonder how long it took me to research it and then write it. It took years.
And in my creation of it, I used all sorts of implements that I didn't invent myself. Does that make my book a big pile of poo? Because if you say it does, we'll have to settle it with flamethrowers at 20 yards in the morning.
Whatever that means.
Now I'm like Max Headroom. "How am I gonna get to sleep?" Maybe I'll just babble on into the ether for the next 12 hours.
I told you all this was my swan song. How can I possibly top what just happened?
See, everybody, this is what happens. Imagine what you just witnessed going on for hours, for days at a time. I probably just had another five years sliced off my lifespan. "Official Cause of death: Thunesian sclerosis."
"I can't allow you to be helpful, because then my own owness won't be my own!"
What did you just say? I'm sorry; I'm not mentally handicapped. I have it on good authority that I'm actually pretty intelligent. But I can't make head nor tail or what you're saying.
"Your assistance would have made a book that could not have been created by me."
What does that even mean? If you're doing all the talking, and I'm just there to record and transcribe, how in God's name are you not the creator? And what does it matter? You also didn't invent the computer that you would use to "create" your precious "creation," so doesn't that dilute the creativeness you're babbling about?
The only possible way you could have total creative control over writing the book would be if you stripped off your own skin and dried it to create parchment, chopped out a chunk of your tibia and carved it into a quill, and used your own blood as ink. Otherwise, honey--I hate to break it to you--someone else will have had a hand in your creativiest creation of all creationality.
Talking to someone makes it easier. The reason your wife is on your tail to write your book and you haven't gotten around to it is that IT'S HARD! Nonfiction is HARD! Sitting there all by yourself, trying to make it all come out on paper--especially if you don't write all the time--is a monumental task that requires so much time that those of us who actually write books are only capable of doing so if we have no lives. Our books are our lives.
It's an informed decision we make. Fathers, husbands, and touring musicians don't write books. It's simply not possible. We writers are solitary, because that's the only way it works.
Man, if I had a great story to tell and I had a pet writer offering to capture my thoughts by serving as a secretary and a sounding board and then turning all that raw material over so that I could then shape it into what I wanted, I'd jump at the chance. When I send you my latest book, you'll be astonished at the size of it, and you'll wonder how long it took me to research it and then write it. It took years.
And in my creation of it, I used all sorts of implements that I didn't invent myself. Does that make my book a big pile of poo? Because if you say it does, we'll have to settle it with flamethrowers at 20 yards in the morning.
Whatever that means.
Now I'm like Max Headroom. "How am I gonna get to sleep?" Maybe I'll just babble on into the ether for the next 12 hours.
I told you all this was my swan song. How can I possibly top what just happened?
