Hypnerdic

You are getting nerdy…

On Cabins, and Their Benefits

I want a cabin.  The kind that’s right next to a lake.  Normally I prefer proper, rugged camping, with tents and fire and constant warfare against flesh-eating insects, but this cabin of mine would not be for camping.  I envision it as the perfect writing retreat.  I could disappear into the wilderness for days and do nothing but write.  Within months I would have penned the perfect masterpiece.

With my opus complete, I could return to civilisation triumphant and submit this perfect work of literary art to the finest of publishing houses.  Upon my rejection, I would then submit it to the second finest, and so on down the line, until my ultimate inimitable work was rejected by every publisher under the sun.  Even the vanity presses!  Disheartened, I would fire my agent and seek new representation, only to find that none would even look at my work.

Alone and embittered, I would return to my cabin, the lakeside sanctuary that once served as the birthing place for the brilliant manuscript that was my undoing.  There, I would pen an open letter that expressed the full and terrifying depth of my seething hatred for the world that had cast me aside.  Once my written catharsis of anger and despair was complete and all my existential rage spent, I would lay down my pen; the very instrument of my downfall; and take my own life.  The hateful letter would go unsent, and undiscovered until six months later, when the police had finally decided to investigate my disappearance.

They would force entry into the cabin only to discover a grim tableau: My badly decomposed body slumped over my writing desk, my head resting on the letter as though its venomous words offered the comfort of a down pillow, pen resting under my lifeless hand, surrounded by a dried pool of my blood.  All perfectly backlit by the sunset.  The crime scene photographer would go on to win a Pulitzer prize for his photos taken at the scene, and would embark on a successful career with National Geographic.  The investigating detective would retire soon after the discovery, shocked out of jaded nihilism by the overwhelming sadness of the scene.  He would spend the remainder of his days making handcrafted wooden toys and caring for his family.  Every Friday he would deliver a single, lovingly carved toy to the local children’s hospital.  One week a train.  The next, a tiny horse with a bow in its mane.

The letter written as my last act of living defiance would be published in the Saturday paper, the impassioned hate contained therein spurring hundreds of letters of complaint.  The paper would print an apology the following week, and punish the editor who allowed the letter to be printed by reassigning his attractive young assistant and replacing her with a stoned, fifty-year-old college dropout.  The letter itself would gain notoriety from this controversy, and be passed from person to person via the internet, growing in popularity until mine was a household name.

The publishing houses that once rejected me would now be locked in a bidding war for my manuscript, now owned by my family.  The finest and wealthiest of publishers would finally make an offer that no competitor could match, and my great masterpiece would see print at last.  The first hardcover edition would include as an afterword the letter that gave me my poshumous popularity.  My family would live like royalty on the money earned for them by my work, and I would be called the voice of a generation, immortalised in death as I could never have been in life.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, cabins are quite expensive.

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October 23, 2009 - Posted by | Ramble | , , , ,

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