POINT: I Found a Typewriter and Now I’m an Esteemed Author
It has been several days since rediscovering a grande typewriter, and I have revitalized my desire to become a fantastic author. I’ve already written several books since my discovery, such as “The Animal Cemetery,” “The Black Spire Series,” and “The Walking Person.” I am excited for all the prestige that will come with being on the New York Times Best Sellers list, as well as enough renown to possibly get my own mediocre movie series with a fantastic soundtrack in several years.
However, my work has begun to stagnate, and I think that I am going to shift to the romance genre. I went to the bookstore to case the joint and figure out where my books would look best when I stumbled into an entire section of identical Nicholas Sparks copy-paste novels about young women who fell in love with ex-Navy SEALs or toned cowboys. There were also at least seven literally almost identical books about loving dukes. The titles were almost the same. I may be an up-and-coming millennial novelist who’s just like every other author of my time, but I’d like to believe I’m better than that.
I’m just glad that my books that I’ve written from this typewriter are of clearly the utmost quality and not at all a duplicate of any other books. Call me Stephen King, because I have the “It” factor.
COUNTERPOINT: Please Stop Breaking Into My House
Listen, I understand the appeal of writing books. It’s my literal job, unlike you, asshole. But just because you broke into my house once to steal my TV and my wallet doesn’t mean you can come into my house randomly at night to type whatever your heart desires. Look— you’re not the fucking Steven Spielberg of books, so you can ALSO stop leaving copies of your manuscript on my nightstand like you’re God’s gift to authors.
I’ve read your crap, and I can honestly say that even with an editor you’d be lucky to keep a single word of your drafts. Nobody’s actually interested in yet another knock-off horror novel where the villain is disabled or the minority characters die first. The only thing worse than bad writing is derivative ableist and racist writing, and somehow you’ve managed to combine the two into a book less interesting than “A Tale of Two Cities,” which I suppose is a laudable achievement if being shit is something to be complimented about.
So do me a favor and stop breaking into my house, alright? I’m willing to forgive the break-ins if you stop writing, and I think that’s a fair trade, so just get out and there won’t be any charges pressed.