“We Have The Face For Radio”

Karasu 120608

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Prologue

Book signings. Ugh, how I hate thee.

Flocks of people telling you how much your book changed their life. I mean, it’s extremely flattering and all. But come the fuck on! You couldn’t have spent weeks at a time, holed up in Your room reading my pieces of shit, could You?

“I literally spent weeks alone in my room, reading your whole bibliography when I got them for Christmas!”

Apparently, You can.

By definition, “You” are the consumer. I’m the producer. Along with everyone else who thinks they have an ounce of writing talent. We produce the books You love to read, whether they be overused cliché romances, sci-fi action adventures (complete with hot alien babes for you xenophiles), or any of the other number of genres writers can write for.

We produce. You consume. It’s a cycle. Just like the one they taught you in your eleventh grade Biology class.

In return, we get money. If we’re lucky.

If we aren’t, we get Your praise. Woo. Some people hold this praise to a high degree. The whole “oh, I got more praise than you do” thing. You know.

It’s not all bad. We write anonymous shit, under a penname You’ll be lucky to pronounce (even though it makes perfect sense to us). You read said anonymous shit. You love it. You consume it. You praise it.

Then, when we’re done, we talk about wanting to get our masterpieces published. Even though, we all know that a publisher wouldn’t touch our shit with a fifty foot pole. You encourage us, because we’re Your “favourite author ever!” We thank You. We write more for You. We produce.

You consume.

See? A cycle.

It works for both of us.

Our relationship is like another one eleventh grade Bio taught you. Symbiosis. You know, where two organisms live together? There’re three kinds of symbiosis: mutualistic, parasitic, and commensal.

We have a mutualistic relationship.

I give to You. You take. You give to me. I take.

Easy, right?

We both benefit from this relationship, too. You get the stories you so love to read. I get feedback and criticism to help me become a better writer (p.s.: “omg so gud, cant wait 4 more” is not constructive criticism).

But, enough of this science bullshit.

I didn’t come here to talk to you about science or our relationship or anything of that sort.

I came here to rip apart your definition of a writer. We aren’t celebrities. We don’t enjoy being the center of attention (well, some of might). We aren’t beautiful or handsome or stunning or gorgeous. We’re normal people, trying to live our boring lives in our books.

So… let’s begin.

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I’ve met a few different writers over the years. I’ve met some that I’ve idolized. And some… they just come with the territory. When I first started touring and doing book signings, I met a young woman. She was a romance writer. A really… great writer. She spun stories that were cliché, but good. A new take on an old storyline.

But… her stories and her interviews didn’t… how do I say this? Present her the right way. Her writing made her seem like a completely approchable person. Her interviews made her seem quirky and cutesy and just generally a sweet gal.

When you met her in person, however…

She’s quite a bitch.

Oh, now, that wasn’t nice of me. Was it?

Eh, get used it.

As I got to know her, her true colours started to show. She wasn’t grateful for anything. She complained a lot. And she thought that she was just the greatest thing since sliced bread. Or butter. Or vibrators or whatever.

Sure, she was a conversationalist. Which was nice, since I’m a bit… socially retarded. I can’t carry on a decent conversation to save my goddamn life. But… normally, when people talk to you for the first time, they inquire about you. They want to get a good judge of your character before they decide if they want to pursue a relationship with you.

Not her.

She talked about nothing but herself.

It was cool at first. I got know her. I knew about her family (which was made up of her abusive mother, her ambivalent father, her goody-two-shoes younger brother and, at some point in time, her cute little pet hamster). I knew about her past romantic relationships (including the boy that broke her heart… five times, the girl she experimented with, and the gay guy friend who helped put her back together). I knew this girl’s whole biography before nine o’clock.

She was interesting. Sure.

But when I tried to relate myself to her stories, tried to tell her about something in our lives that was parallel, she just… kept on talking.

Which isn’t flattering, of course.

Eventually, I got away from her clutches. Her evil, girly clutches.

But now… every time I see one of her books on store shelves, I have to buy it. It’s an obsession that becomes a compulsion that becomes shelves in my house, filled with her books.

She was bitch. But she was good writer.

And now, I can’t help but think “what if?” What if she had been a really great person? If she would’ve not been a complete fuckass, I could’ve seen a great friendship potential.

But, alas.

I still like reading her books. And that perfect, quirky author that I made up when I read her books… I have to think that that’s really who she is.

That’s what us writers do. We live in a world of pretend.

It’s the only thing we know how to do.

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At another one of those parties that the big wigs use to raise money for their “charities” or whatever, I met another author.

Unlike the aforementioned woman, he would become a big part of my life. She was just an example of how people come and go when you’re “famous.” And how writing is deceiving. You can’t trust your mental image of a person. Your… ideal.

That’s why, when I met him, I was weary to trust my ideal of him. I had read quite a few of his works before we met. I… was a fan. I guess you could say.

More than that, really.

I read everything of his that I could get my hands on. Unfinished stories that he had sent to his close circle of friends. Finished story blurbs that he had posted on his website until they were published. His published works, too, I had collected. I read them over and over.

I was bit… obsessed.

But not in the way that I was obsessed with the previous woman’s work.

I was obsessed with knowing about him.

Every author lives through their stories. It’s a cold, hard fact. So, through his stories, I learned about him.

I grew to love him.

Well, the ideal of him.

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This is where my real story begins.

I’ve explained all of the backstory. I’ve given you a little bit of insight. Hopefully, it’ll be up to you to judge who I was really in love with. Him. The ideal. You choose.

You’re the consumer, right?

I’m producing.

Now consume.

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Author's Note: My newest story. Written on a whim. :3 Aren't they all?

Honestly, though, I have no idea where I'm going with this. :/ Whoops.