Thirteen narcissists in a room.
One occupies the head of the table,
gently fondling his first published novel,
Milk Toast,
which the university press declares
"a wry and energetic romp" chronicling
the misadventures of an associate professor
struggling with literary success
and an arranged marriage gone awry.
He admires the glossy cover of his book
while the rest of us huddle in groups of four
to discuss dialogue construction.
"Good dialogue should sound real," someone offers.
"It should advance the plot," says another.
"And reveal character."
They turn to professor who acknowledges approvingly.
"Alright," professor says, "here comes
a timed exercise to help you think more creatively."
He produces an assortment of newspapers
and instructs the class to document
as many narrative ideas as can be imagined
from the headlines.
"You have six minutes."
I am handed a paper and encounter a piece
chronicling a group of Japanese students
who built a world-record-breaking,
one-hundred-foot-tall structure
made of Legos.
The Japanese celebrated the achievement
with a parade of streamers, fireworks and musicians.
The fireworks grew out of hand,
and the wooden platform supporting their creation
caught fire.
Attempts to control the blaze failed,
collapsing the structure.
A photo portrays teenagers standing
in horror and weeping.
The headline reads,
JAPANESE LEGO-TOWER RECORD
SPOILED BY TRAGEDY,
yet idea of those aspiring students
and their record-breaking achievement,
the months of planning and effort undertaken
only to see a precious monument
to god knows what go up in flames,
it strikes me as fodder for satire.
I pass the paper and observe others
scribbling furiously in their notebooks,
pencils racing, trying desperately to
out-create each other.
"Time's up!"
Then it hits me
like a phantom punch to the skull
in what professor calls
"your divine, creative spark."
I get the hell out of there,
hustle to the nearest bar,
and write this down.
**First published in The American Dissident
**Illustration by Morgane Xenos
