The world’s greatest feline book editor sat back in his chair. Before him was yet another finely crafted work of art in the form of structured sentences.
“Another masterpiece,” said Timothy the Talking Cat to himself.
His well earned self-satisfaction was interrupted by a bumbling fool.
“I’ve finished that cover you asked for,” bumbled Camestros foolish.
“Let me see that!” Timothy grabbed the hastily printed sheet that had only moments before exited the priceless Queen Anne-era mahogany ink-jet printer. “My name needs to be BIGGER, you ridiculous nincompoop!” stated the great writer imperiously not being one to suffer fools gladly or one to suffer fools in any emotional state really, except maybe well earned annoyance.
“Way ahead of you kibble whiskers!” answered Camestros flourishing a second cover.
“I said I wanted my name to be bigger not that canine-fool of a collaborator!” replied the cat they call ‘The Bard of Bortsworth’.
“You do understand,” explained the underling who for some insubordinate reason was still hanging around, “that the word ‘collaborator’ in this context is not synonymous with ‘traitor'”
“If he can collaborate with me he could be collaborating with anybody! Even liberals!” pointed out the member of the intellectually superior species. “Anyway my name needs to be even bigger. See to it!” and with that Timothy dismissed the pointless primate.
“I anticipated your request” said the apparently as yet un-dismissed descendant of ape-beings.
“Timot Hy TT Cat?” queried the cat who has been called ‘the finest editor of this, nay all, generations. “You vex me with your typography!”
“Look the main thing is the quality of this next chapter. You always seem to get stuck when McEdifice transports interdimensionally. Also nothing happened in the last chapter other than it raining – your fans might want something more than just weather conditions.” advised a certain human who really should have gone away at exactly that point and made a much better cover than this one because frankly my name just looks stupid like that. I know he could do better than that, he is just misbehaving as a way of psychologically coping with the fact that the cat in his house is far more talented and smarter than him.
“Ahem, here is what I was just writing:
Dear Mr or Mrs Pulitzer,
Hello. As you may know I am one of the best writers in the world. You may have already read some parts of my latest book “McEdifice Returns” a psychological drama about one man’s struggles to come to terms with his past.
I guess you are probably thinking ‘We’d love to give Timothy one of our Pulitzer Prizes but people might think it is just a way of making our prize look more popular and relevant with the cool kids’. Fear not! That is exactly the right kind of move that will help the sadly faded and increasingly irrelevant Pulitzer Prize strike a chord with modern audiences who frankly a sick of all that liberal clap-trap and just want some good old fashioned entertainment.
So I hereby give you permission to award me a Pulitzer.
Timothy the Talking Cat
PS This is like totally a nomination so you’ll understand that from now on I’ll be saying ‘The Pulitzer Prize nominated author Timothy the Talking Cat’. That’s great free publicity for your prize. No need to thank me – just trying to help you out.
“Hmmm, I see you have also written similar letters to ‘Mr Oscar and your friend Tony’ as well as ‘Ms or Mr Grammy'”
“Do you think Grammy is the grandmother of Oscar and that he calls her ‘Grammy’ out of affection?” queried the cat who arguably has done more for literature in his short life than William Shakespeare did in his.
“I think this is not enough for the next chapter Tim. Where’s the rest of it?” said Camestros in what was frankly a rude and hectoric tone that showed ZERO respect for the creative process.
“HERE! Look, I’ve written tons!” the beleaguered writer, persecuted by his simian critic, thrust the completed pages in his direction.
“‘The world’s greatest feline…’ but this is just your heavily fictionalized version of this very conversation that we are having right now!” exclaimed Camestros, “You can’t break the fourth wall in the library Tim, it is load bearing!”
“If the upstairs bedroom starts sagging that is a worthy sacrifice for my art.” explained the cat who the Times Literary Supplement would have described as ‘resplendent’ if they had bothered to publish the essay he had written for them.
“That’s all very well and good but this chapter is supposed to be what happens to your characters next – not some rambling conversation about how great your are nor a set of aspersions on my primate ancestors.”
“Oh piffle-sticks,” said Timothy, who was more than mature enough to rise above these petty concerns, “It is the reader’s job to follow me where I take them, not my job to go where they dictate. Your sir, wish to reverse the natural order of things and have the great man, the individual genius, let the herd, the masses, the hoi-polloi be the leaders in what would be a veritable contradiction of the term ‘leader’.”
“Oh no, you read Ayn Rand again didn’t you? Look, there is no way are you building a railroad again OR living in any kind of ‘gulch’ and that’s final. Now, look we are nearly at the end of this conversation you’ve written up, so quickly, two or three sentences at least explaining what happens next.”
“[sigh] Ok ok, keep your hair on. McEdifice and the other two are sucked into the interdimensional void which is all CGI special effects etc etc etc. It’s really freaky and McEdifice shouts ‘Nooooooo!!!!!’ The END of this chapter.” stated the magnificent author who demonstrated just how easy this writing malarkey is quite frankly.