Even God’s a Writer – Amy-Jean Muller

So, you were a writer, and a visionary, and anyone you fucked automatically became your protégé.  And when you spoke about writing, and the niches and cliques and clichés and stories about the superficialities of London, or ‘insert trivialities here…’ You resorted to discussing your ‘feelings’ and ‘beliefs’ amongst other authors, about the other writers, and their stories and their fortes. Explaining to your barely legal votary over a chipped plate of freshly cut cocaine, how your words were somehow different, somehow more valid than those superficial successful people you felt were both insignificant and banal – which pointed more to the opinion of your disapproval and less to those who received it. And with every line cut in parallel you’d felt superior. You believed you were simply better, unable to see the correlation between your stories and their stories. Unaware of your judgment. Incapable of registering how you emulated the very people you’d berate. Only as a B-rate hallmark made-for-tv version, as you too, masturbated to the very pretentious books they’d create.
        But at the end of the day, it was ok because you would it justify it. Saying it made you alternative and unique interesting in a way that run-of-the-mill social celebrity writing success just wouldn’t understand. Conventional was boring, and somehow you felt superior for it. Not like the others. Not like those writers. You were different. Just like a God, at least that’s what you told yourself. Because darling, your amour propre made you trust it, and your pinpointed opinion of yourself and your métier and it’s non-conformist triumphs made you believe you were something significant. Noteworthy. Yet underground. When, in actuality, you mattered less because of it. And maybe that’s why those people made you maniacal – because you would never matter to them anyway.
        Yet insecurity couldn’t stick, and you would laugh with a heaving intolerance, and gesticulate and prophesize about post modernism, and the state of politics or digital media, and roll your eyes when you discussed it, even with a comical predictability where you somehow thought you could prove you were better than them. Those writers. At least that’s what you assured yourself. And when you caught your reflection to ensure you still looked just right, trying to prove established writers’ accomplishments were somehow irrelevant, the words you chattered over the dull cheap cracked plate of cocaine, fell haplessly aside. Since the irony was you, and your words –those precious words – the words you felt should be savoured in print, neglected to address you weren’t one fraction as appealing or thriving in comparison. But darling you knew it, because the act of delusion was of such grandeur that the very quotes you use to justify it, came from the very writers you derided. Which you believed made them sound better, just like a prodigy, just like a God, at least that’s what you sold yourself.
        Then you’d go back to your words, those treasurable words that forced me to roll my eyes when you spoke about your protagonist. Insinuating your book’s fuck scene was inspired by your life. Detailing his trials around his erect size. How the woman in the chapters seemed to ‘struggle’ with ‘delight,’ as you tried to shield your pride in a story where you were your own muse. Which was no surprise. Because who better to show a fictional woman a real lie. And just as you poured another drink that seemed so bourgeoisie it turned my stomach. I couldn’t help but watch you try to convince yourself you actually liked it. As you stood in sunglasses at night, swallowing down the taste of White Russian, through milky ice, despite being violently lactose intolerant. 
        But that’s the thing about stories, woman know it’s modesty that would bring a welcome surprise. We don’t believe in feeble tales, even those about protagonists with cocks too big, and the authors who think they inspired it. And as you leant in our all-black garb drinking through your gastric discomfort, it didn’t dawn on you how woman lied. How they’d said it was the biggest they’d ever seen, how wonderful it was and sublime, and how it hurt ‘in a good way baby’ – just to get you to perform. Because nothing makes little Timmy run faster than a mother figure clapping from the side-lines, and nothing makes a man think he can fuck you more than pretending he’s the only one who can. 
        Afterall that’s the thing about belief. Even a little lie can make God real, and even a lie led you to believe you could take any bitch to the moon. A lie convinced you you were extraordinary, you were a writer, a voice to be heard, with all those words. Now listen and ask yourself; if a tree knows it’s falling in the woods did the tree decide it? And is fabricating being something that matters, a means to achieve it? Just like most Gods, you sat there believing it for yourself too. Because God wrote his own story after all. Just like your sunglasses, and your drink, and the stories you told in your books about those people from that world that you hate. Who you believe you’re better than, with your cocaine, on a plate, affecting the might of your cock – As I’d moan to get you off me, and cum with a £8 drug store vibrator after you’d leave.