Books are dead and good riddance. You find the Internet disgusting. Storytelling makes you wish you didn’t have ears.
“Then how do you plan to distribute your next work?” Charlie Rose is asking you on the TV.
Your newest novel is going to be serialized, you explain to him. You’ve copied each chapter in very small print on the side of some bricks. And each week, you’ll drive past people’s houses and throw the bricks through their windows.
“So your novel will literally hit as hard as a brick through a window,” Charlie Rose will try to joke, but he’ll instantly realize he failed and he’ll poke himself in the thigh with a thumb tack to punish himself, which is something he does to make sure he remains a master interviewer. “Was it hard to write that small?”
You tell Charlie Rose that it was. There were lots of bricks you had to pulverize when you discovered spelling errors.
“What if people are killed?” Charlie Rose asks. “By the bricks? Hitting them in the head and covering them in broken glass, etc.”
Then you’ll be put in jail, you tell him. And that should give you some good material for your writing. You laugh quietly to let Charlie Rose know you’re being funny.
“Oh my God that’s a riot,” Charlie Rose says. He then laughs until he cries, and soon there’s no laughter. Just the crying. He never stops crying after that.
Never.
Happy You Only Write On Bricks Day!
