Remiel

Posthumously ghost-written

Forget laboring for years, honing my writer’s craft, struggling with dialogue and other pretentious shit. I’m just going to buy an old-fashioned, lockable desk. One of those deep brown ones with antique-style slots along the top for “correspondence”.

A desk with a key.

Then I’m going to hire a ghostwriter to pen me some novelicious shit. Something about hubris and railroad empires and dogs finding their way home.

I will not publish this novel. I will lock it away in my writer’s desk, with coffee stains and dust obscuring it, Old Werther’s Originals wrappers partially clinging, and the corners of the pages blunted by casually shoved objects.

Then I will die.

And someone will find “my” novel. They’ll be amazed. ”We had no idea!”

The newspapers will rally. “Character development!” “A story with a beginning, middle, and end!” “Man who could barely write a coherent email apparently had competent understanding of basic story structure, after all!”

Postumously ghost-written.