Let’s play pretend. No, no, stop — put down the tea-set. We’re not drinking fake tea. No! Stop, I said. What’s with the bonnet? And a shepherd’s crook, seriously? Oh. Oh god. That’s a latex fisting dildo, isn’t it? What kind of “pretend” are you playing at here, anyway? I’m just going to pretend you’re not here. See what I did there? Shut up. Don’t look at me.
Let’s play a whole different game of pretend.
Let’s pretend that you’re, I dunno, an old writer. On your last legs. Your liver is bourbon-scarred. Your brain, mice-eaten. Fingertips permanently smudged with ink, and your mouth tastes not of ashes but rather, of typewriter ribbon. You’re not merely a dead man walking. You’re a dead writer typing.
Let’s further pretend that you have a protege. That protege may be a child. Or an apprentice. Or some kind of sex robot who you believe should leave his “life” of sex-robotics to do something productive.
This protege is going to be a writer, too.
Let’s say you can offer that protege a single piece of writing advice. Something summed up in a single sentence. Can be as glib or as profound as you’d like, but arguably the goal is to make this one volley of writing advice count. You can whisper or mumble or gibber it before you go scrivening your way off this mortal coil. This is important shit. Something they may not know. Something that must be imparted before your bowels loosen and your eyes go dark.
What is that piece of writing advice?
(If you so choose, you can supplant “writing advice” for “storytelling advice” if that opens up your thought process. You can also beat yourself about the head and neck with that fisting dildo. Do what you like.)
Drop into comments, answer, if you feel so inclined. Thank you for your time.