What? What's this? Aw, no not again. Please tell me you're not writing another novel and thinking of self-publishing it again. Boy, are you a sucker for punishment! What's the point? Barely anyone read your first one. What's that? You say at least you can get your work out there and what happens to your work once it is out there is anyone's guess. Come on man, be honest - your chances won't be any better the second time around.
Unless of course you drop your pretensions and become a mercenary hack churning out gay romance novels or epic tales of lovelorn vampires incomprehensibly infatuated with vacuous teen-aged girls. If you do that, then you might stand a chance out there, but you won't be the only one chasing that rabbit, my friend, so you'd better have some new angle or bend - something to separate your schlock from the other cobbled tales of lycanthropic lusting and sybaritic swooning.
What do you mean you aren't interested in that? You're lying if you claim you aren't interested in fame or money. Johnson said no man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money, and the last time I checked, your fridge was half-empty and your driveway, Porsche-free. So why bother? What good is your work out there if it brings no return on investment, no passive income, and no compounded yields?
You hear that, sunshine? That's Johnson mocking you from the beyond with a loud, ponderous, jowelly laugh. So loud, poor Boswell is going to include it in the biography - even in the beyond. So, what's the deal blockhead? Why are you wasting your time? The work you put out there is a baitless hook; an empty tin cup in the quivering hand of an invisible beggar; a mere grain of sand on a vast expanse of beach; the faintest, barely-perceptible star in the starry ocean above.
What's that? Out there is better than in here? How do you figure? Don't go pulling all that mystical stuff on me again now, talking about higher things and consciousness. That's just defensive gibberish on your part, blockhead. Trying to justify the unjustifiable with noble visions of ascension, but who do you think you're kidding? You can't pay the power bill with consciousness!
Like it or not, this is show business, pal, and if you're not giving the people what they want, they won't give you what you want. It ain't rocket science, cupcake. So drop the noble artist schtick. That only works in here. No one gives a rat's ass out there.
Reality? That's what I'm trying to talk to you about, genius. Thinking? Creativity? Transcendence? Aw, give it a rest already. Hanging around you with you is getting embarrassing. You're cramping my style. I'm trying to do what's good for you - what's good for us. There's a whole world out there, damn it! Cut it with the metaphysical and get back into the physical. Oh, that's what you're doing, you say? What's that? Transcribing the metaphysical into the physical? Is that what it comes down to for you, Skippy? Some kind of spiritual alignment gimmick? No, you say? It's just a small part of it? Big or small, that's all it is, you know. A gimmick. A lie. A pipe dream extraordinaire. You're deluding yourself if you think otherwise.
Well, I got news for you, Shakespeare. I'm not putting it up with your delusions any longer. If you want to waste your life on wisps and shadows, that's your prerogative. Me? I got better things, to do. So here's the deal, friendo. You stop clickety-clacking on that computer right now or I swear, I'll get up and go. I ain't kidding this time. You see, I got my suitcases all packed and everything. Are you listening to me?
Voice? What voice? The voice is telling you to do it? Listen here, buddy. I'm the only voice that counts around here! Hearing any voice besides mine qualifies you as insane, you know. Don't pretend to ignore me! I mean it this time. You stop that typing or, so help me, I'm out of here. For good, too! Last chance! I'll count to three. One. Two.
Aw, that's it! I'm blowing out of this candy stand. You hear that? That's the cab I called. Once I walk out that door, I'm never looking back. You won't turn me into a pillar of salt with your pious creativity and wasted efforts. Well, I guess that's it then, huh? I'd like to say it was fun, but I can't. Yeah, go on ignore me. All those years, and this is the thanks I get. You no good bum! I hope the flesh falls from your fingers! Squandering your life away by dipping your quill into nothing but tears and blood. I'm better off without you, you selfish bastard. Heaven have mercy on your soul if I ever catch a glimpse of you out there.
(Angry stomping followed by door slamming.)
(Silence, followed by a sigh of relief.)