lb_lee: A pencil sketch of me drawing/writing in my sketchpad. (art)
[personal profile] lb_lee
This story was prompted by [livejournal.com profile] nevacaruso and [livejournal.com profile] chordatesrock, who requested a world where stories were currency, and the theme of legal/economic concerns hemming artists in. It was sponsored by [livejournal.com profile] nevacaruso. Happy Wealthathon!

Wealth of Ideas

In the pleasant, post-scarcity land of Shangri-La, art reigned supreme. There, the most true experiences were metaphorical, and that which was most real was the most symbolic, so it only made sense that wealth in Shangri-La was in ideas. Art gave spice to the people’s peaceful, contented lives, and they felt pride in their meritocracy. To become fabulously, symbolically, truly rich in Shangri-La, one only needed dazzling artistic talent.

One of these maestros was William Dawkins. To call what he wrote ‘literary fiction’ was an insult to his work. His religious allegories were scintillating, his sentences minute gems of the English language. His tragedies could reduce hard men to tears, and his love scenes had cemented (and destroyed) more marriages than anyone in the New Western world. In a land where artistic argument supplied most small talk, everyone agreed that his oeuvre was brilliant. He was brilliant.

Which was a shame, since William Dawkins loathed his work.

“It’s pompous, pretentious pap,” he told his friend over synth-wine and cheese. “If I could, I’d take every main character of every novel I’ve ever published, and I’d toss them in the meat grinder.”

“Well, why don’t you?” The friend asked.

William Dawkins didn’t answer.

It wasn’t just that he loved the wealth. Of course he did. Having published his first novel at sixteen, to rave reviews, he’d never been anything but obscenely wealthy, and he couldn’t fathom changing that. But that wasn’t the sole reason.

The fact was, all Shangri-La revered William Dawkins, and he just didn’t have it in him to disappoint their expectations. They wanted symbolism, deep metaphorical lessons about life and death and justice. They didn’t want to read what William Dawkins wanted to write.

More than anything in the world, William Dawkins wanted to write furry fanfiction pornography. And not the classy kind either. At the age of twelve, while leafing through a dry book of Shakespearean/Christian comparative literature, he’d discovered a few typewritten pages, full of typos, of a thirteen-year-old cat-boy with impressive genitalia porking Harry Potter. It had been utter garbage, but it had triggered his greatest spiritual awakening and inspired every love scene he’d ever written. Even now, he sometimes still read it, furtively, where he kept it hidden in a secret compartment in his headboard.

All of his great awakenings had been spurred by stories like that. It was why he’d become a writer. Forget Shakespeare; he wanted to be like NekoKawaiiChan13.

Unfortunately, no child’s first serious project ever came out perfectly. Most adolescents wanted to write genius and instead wrote crap. William Dawkins had aspired to crap, and therefore produced avant-garde genius.

For as long as he could remember, William Dawkins had envisioned his magnum opus, a crossover wherein Legolas from Lord of the Rings systematically slept his way through the entire male casts of Pokémon, Transformers, and Fraggle Rock. He had it all planned out—the portals, the magical powers Legolas would gain from his experiences, the penile dimensions of every character.

It was shit. It was dreadful. And he loved it more than anything else in the world. He just couldn’t bring himself to actually write it.

Never mind the objective quality of such a thing. At this point, he suspected that his fame was at the point that people would consider Legolas Bangs Everyone a brilliant act of satire. But what would his friends say? His critics? His mother? To allow them such unfettered access to his id was terrifying. Besides which, Shangri-La had long since illegalized fanfiction for crimes against intellectual property and artistic sanctity. Even if he posted it under a pen name on some remote corner of the Internet…

No. He couldn’t. He mustn’t. But oh, he wanted to!

For years, he just lay in bed, fantasizing. Until, one day, he realized the obvious: he didn’t need to publish! He could write his magnum opus, and no one need ever know! It’d be his little secret, hidden under his mattress.

William hadn’t written anything without an audience for twenty years. Since he’d been sixteen, he’d always had editors, agents, and critics. Everything he’d written had been made for them. It almost felt like cheating to make something for himself.

But he sat at his computer. After a minute or so staring at the blank page and its flickering cursor, he took a deep breath, put his hands to the keyboard, and expecting lightning to strike him, he wrote his first line:

Elfin penises are the gods of all penises.

He froze. No angry god smote him. No government agent came bursting through his window. His computer didn’t even crash.

William returned his hands to the keyboard.

And among all elfin penises, Legoslas’s trouser warrior was the best.

A typo. William automatically moved to fix it, then paused. Why should he? It wasn’t like anyone else was going to read it.

The thought was liberating. Starting to smile, William began to write in earnest. He devoted paragraphs to Legolas’s endowments, depicted in loving detail. He made grammar mistakes and abused punctuation, purely for novelty. He wrote ceaselessly without a single pause or backspace for four hours. Then he went to bed.

On waking the next morning, William wrote some more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so invigorated. For almost twenty years, he’d been dreaming of this, and now he was finally doing it! He was happy.

For six weeks, William Dawkins wrote more words faster than he ever had before. Until finally, one night at three in the morning, it was done. He had said everything he needed to say; Legolas had banged everyone.

He stared at his computer screen. Oddly, having finally written everything he’d ever wanted, he felt sorrow. It’d been so much fun. He didn’t want it to end.

Then he smiled.

“I changed my mind,” he said to no one. “I think I will edit, after all.”

And laughing, he began to do just that.

OMG NEKOKAWAIICHAN13!!!11!

Date: 2013-09-04 10:25 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] nevacaruso.livejournal.com
I started making making "...excuse me?" faces when I got to the part about the catboy, and am not sure that I ever really stopped. You should take that as the most positive feedback imaginable. Thank you for writing this for me and making me laugh!

Date: 2017-05-22 10:48 pm (UTC)
mirrorofsmoke: Text icon: I can't believe we're still protesting this shit. (Default)
From: [personal profile] mirrorofsmoke
Dammit. I want to read Legolas bangs everyone.

-Mokey

Date: 2017-05-23 07:47 pm (UTC)
mirrorofsmoke: Text icon: I can't believe we're still protesting this shit. (Default)
From: [personal profile] mirrorofsmoke
There once was a writer named Ro
Who wrote the best porn don'cha know.
He'd lube up his schlong
And write all day long
And see how far he could go!

You're welcome. *Bows*

This is a reward for the one you wrote us. XD

Date: 2017-05-24 08:06 pm (UTC)
mirrorofsmoke: Text icon: I can't believe we're still protesting this shit. (Default)
From: [personal profile] mirrorofsmoke
Glad you enjoyed. <3
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