This is the eighth part in a series, so if you have not already done so, you might want to read Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, and Part VII before continuing.
2215
“What are you working on?” said James as he took a seat across from his friend, Charlotte, at their local coffee shop.
“My novel,” Charlotte said without looking up from her tablet.
“Are you still working on that one about the price of corporate greed?”
“Yep.”
James sipped his coffee while waiting for Charlotte to finish.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally turning the tablet off. “I just got here a little early, figured I’d get some writing done while waiting for you, and then I got on a roll.”
James waved off her apology. “It’s fine. I know how it is. But I thought you hated writing in coffee shops. Didn’t you say only posers pretending to be writers do that?”
“Yes, but we can’t choose where inspiration strikes, can we? That’s why I take my tablet everywhere I go. You know Chandra White carried a notebook everywhere she went so she could write down ideas whenever they came to her?”
“You mean pen and paper? Wasn’t that kind of old fashioned, even for her time?”
“A little. She published her first novel shortly after tablets became popular. When most tablets were still made by Apple.”
“Right. So you’re aiming to be the next Chandra White, huh?”
Charlotte shrugged and cast her eyes down. “I don’t know if I would go that far. But I would certainly like to be recognized in the way she was. To write serious literature about the injustice of society and the individual’s struggle against the norm. Wouldn’t it be great to be the author of a book that wins awards and people still read two hundred years later?”
“I guess, but how will you know whether or not your works are being read centuries from now? It’s not like you’ll be around to enjoy having people discuss your writing in schools.”
“True. That’s why I hope to win a Pulitzer. If I could win an award for my writing, then I could consider myself to be a successful writer.”
James wrinkled his nose. “Really? You’d rather win an award than have your work read and enjoyed by millions? Turned into a movie or a miniseries?”
“If I win an award, all those things will happen anyway, won’t they?”
“I suppose, but you can also have your book read by millions without winning any awards. White didn’t win any awards, did she?”
Charlotte’s brow creased. “I’m not sure. She must have.”
James smiled. “Why ‘must’ she have?”
“Because she was such a great writer. Her books sold millions. Were made into movies. She wrote many of the screenplays herself. And we’re still reading them today.”
“That doesn’t mean anyone in her lifetime gave her an award for it.”
Charlotte took out her tablet, tapped it a few times, and said, “Huh. What do you know?”
“No awards?”
“No awards.” She put the tablet away and said, “What about you? What are you working on?”
“A sketch comedy. That show I want to write for won’t hire me, so I decided to write for them anyway. I figure local theater might want to put them on, or I could always adapt them to be a one-man show and do them myself.”
Charlotte snickered. “Then what will you do? Post them online for free?”
“I thought I might, yes. See if I get enough views to post some ads along with it.”
“Do you know how many people are putting up their own one-man shows?”
“Millions.”
“And how do you intend to compete with millions?”
“I have a small following. I’m hoping my content will be good enough that they’ll like it, share it, and hopefully my following will grow.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.” Charlotte’s tone was full of sarcasm, but James ignored it.
“I will,” he said.
The End!