A Farewell to Arts

By Roger Owens

There was a man. Just a regular guy really, maybe a bit harder-working than most, but just a regular guy. He had what employers want a guy to have: the house, the wife, the mortgage, the car, the kid, the dog. Best way to keep a worker from considering leaving; he needs this job. Then he broke the mold and bought his own business. After a few years, he was successful enough to have a lot of time on his hands. And, this man had a dream.
    He wanted to be a writer. He was a writer. He wrote. He wrote for ten years or more. He thought his dream was to sell his writing and make money and make his living as a writer. But the longer that did not happen, the more he wondered about just exactly what his dream really was. One day out of the blue, he realized what he really wanted was to write. What he wanted was for people to read his work, and of course, he wanted them to like it. But one cannot have the second without the first; it was a calculated risk, he reasoned, that perhaps they would not. However, never one to let difficulty get in the way, he decided to attempt this undertaking.
    The man had no more idea concerning how to go about this, well, this not selling his work, than he’d had about selling it in the first place, to the old, traditional kind of publisher. From not one of which, he noted for the thousandth time, with profound irritation, had he ever received so much as a rejection letter. He understood it; it was just business. When in sales mode, he kept his eye on the likely buyer, and wasted little to none on those he knew were not able or interested in buying. They were looking for books they thought would sell; apparently his had not impressed them. That rankled a bit, but it was, as they say, what it was.
    And so it was that, with nowhere else to turn, the man just did what everybody does these days: he talked about it on social media. He just talked about it. He put up some cat pics that day, might have bragged over supper the night before, and said essentially that he wanted people to read his stuff, and he didn’t care if he ever made a dime from it.
    It was like magic. The second the man forgot about the money, it was as if the universe had opened up. That very day, a dear friend on Facebook introduced the man to a blog called “Moristotle & Co.,” after cautiously requesting an example of the man’s work, which precaution he thought was quite reasonable. Before he went to bed that night, the man had sent several poems to this wondrous blog, was assured they would be published, and made a deal to write articles for this blog whenever possible.
    It was a whole new world. He was a published writer, he had copyrights, he had a new book coming along nicely. He wrote articles, and from the very beginning, the maestro of this amazing blog kept on him, criticizing, cajoling, correcting, and generally whipping his writing into some semblance of publishability. And the other writers on the blog continuously raised the bar, publishing works of such grace and beauty as to drag a minor talent to a new finish line, almost daily, just to keep up. This was his dream. To share his work, and see the elegant works of others, to improve his writing and his creativity. This was the man’s dream, and it came true. One hundred percent, more than he’d ever dreamed. It came true.

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Moristotle, your blog has been for you a labor of love. And you didn’t just “accomplish” it, you did it – actively, purposefully, intentionally. You sought it out. You weren’t thrown to the wolves, you jumped at the wolves. Off a cliff, in the dark. You wanted it, needed it, and by God you did it.
    I cannot overstate my admiration, my gratitude, my wonder at this momentous thing you have created. Dozens of people like me, whose dreams have been fulfilled by your schooling, your suggestions, your ability to empathize with the author of a story that is not yours.
    I mean this: next to my marriage to Cindy, my association with Moristotle & Co. has been the absolute pinnacle of my enjoyment of my time here on Earth, and you know I would not say that lightly. Don’t scuff your feet and go aw shucks; you literally (pun there) made my dream come true. I simply cannot heap enough praise upon you and your wonderful creation.
    With all due love and respect, I remain, your grateful friend forever.

Copyright © 2023 by Roger Owens