忽然想起去年三月時寫的一篇短篇,決定拿出來再修改一次。
應該是這幾天一直看電子書的東西,關於版權問題以及許多作家的在此轉換之際的心情,才會想起這一篇短篇。


請多加指教批評。


===========For the love of all the readers writers have hoped to inspire=============


Dear Reader,

I write with the most humble and undignified manner, in hope that you shall listen to a word or two I have to say on my book—because you alone shall read my book and absorb, suck the printed words into your mind and leave the page of my creation blank.

I do not ask you to take every word here on this letter—which will soon be wiped blank after you finish reading it—as highest propriety, for in years to come, the only interpretation of the book that will be remembered is your interpretation, and that I have no authority, nor right to interfere with what is now yours and yours to wield as you wish. Yet, as a Writer, I too hope to hold some right in deciding the influence I wish my work to create.

This book—which now only exists in your mind—came to me on a night some fifty years ago, when I was only a child of ten. At that time, you were not even born yet, and we only had typewriters. I hit upon an inspiration, and resolved to become a Writer. Inspiration is a rare thing, and dangerously ruining to a lifetime if abused. They warned me, my dearest father and mother; they pleaded and coaxed, “You have any occupation in the world to choose from, why? For as you know, a Writer spends a lifetime creating one masterpiece, and only one person in the world can read it, take its words, and at the moment of publication, the Writer is left with nothing but fragments of memory, at the mercy of his lone Reader.” It is not that no Writers have succeeded in writing great works, but it is that few have found a Reader that can really READ the book. Great works have been wasted away or left to the corroding of time by careless or neglecting Readers that picked up the book and steal away the words that were not meant for them.

As for you, my Reader, I wish to give you all the memory I have left that has not yet abandoned me of my book. Do not interpret it as a detective novel, though it involves a cop and a culprit. Do not take it as a romantic novel either, even though the cop in the end falls in love with the beautiful and rich mistress of the mansion, whose father was killed by the murderer. Nor is it a tragedy, even though they never get married. It is not mere wit either, for it is not only humor and laughter the words are trying to convey. It is decades of sweat and sadness, and the bitterness of a Writer embodied in words. It is a lifetime spent paying the price of the choice to write. It is lack of income and near death of self disgrace and humiliation, as a Writer sees his peers, one by one, becoming world famous engineers, excellent cooks in five star restaurants, and successful businessmen, living lives of luxury and content. It is a story that spans fifty years, going from a typewriter to a keyboard, from a pen to a mouse, from the mind to the soul. Yet, it is a story of no regret.

Tell them my story, Reader, let the world know my story, for only you can do it for me. Be not selfish and take the sole masterpiece of my life into your grave of silence.

That is my only request of you.

My memory leaks like ink from a pen. Soon, I will become the nothingness all Writers who are finished with their works become, a mere idolized or else deserted and worthless existence. Now I close my computer monitor, send out this letter, and leave the remaining words to the mercy of my Reader.

Yours Truly,
Writer



(12-Mar-09)
(Rev. 20-Jul-10)
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