By Jacob Daly
Humor commentary
An admirable writer once advised would-be intellectuals, "If you're serious about effecting positive change, then you're going to have to embrace the fact that you're a lot less qualified to speak to certain issues than you think you are. So choose something that you feel strongly about. Study up on it. Form an opinion. Understand why people disagree with you. Then proceed in whatever manner you judge most reasonable, appropriate, and constructive." I took this to heart, and hours of painstaking research finally culminated in sitting down to pen my opinion on the problems of today's world. Caught up in the exhilaration of following this advice, however, I took it too far. Rather than simply write, I decided to replicate, to the finest exactitudes, the proven methods of the literary greats before me.
I looked first to the godfather of English literature?William Shakespeare. Whatever old Willy did when he sat down to write, I would do too. Clearly, I went with my research to the most reputable biographical source available, Miramax's major motion picture "Shakespeare in Love." I watched the film 47 times, learning more about the master and his craft with each viewing. I came to understand that Shakespeare's greatness did not derive from his genius. All I had to do in order to write well was use a quill, parchment, and a candle. Then I could inherit the Bard's superior wordsmithing.
Good parchment being hard to find these days, and birds with sufficiently sized feathers too difficult to catch, I resigned myself to pen and paper. I procured a candle and a quiet corner, but quickly discovered the light was to dim for my purpose. Naturally, I surrounded myself with more candles, and finally able to see, began my work. No word escaped my grasp, and I flew through my inaugural opus with the speed of Puck himself. I briefly stepped away from my work to fetch an Elizabethan dictionary, but returning found my candle-lit sanctuary of the written word reduced to smoldering ash. With a thunderous "Zounds!" I cursed the candles and turned my back on the Shakespearean method. He didn't really write all of those plays anyway.
Pondering anew the makings of literary success, I realized that great authors often write about what they know. For instance, Ian Fleming worked for British naval intelligence in World War II and bang! James Bond was born. However, since no one would be interested in a column about masturbation and arcane minutiae from the NFL record books, I sought new and profound experiences. War seemed like a perfect option: You've seen that commercial, with father and son remarking at how service changed the boy into a man. As worthwhile a venture as that might have been, however, I considered myself a conscientious objector to military activity, on the grounds that I'm lazy and out of shape.
Perhaps, I then said to myself, some political experience will yield literary excellence. I could write something as genius as "Gulliver's Travels" or radical as "All the King's Men." I've harbored a grudge against politics since the sixth grade, when the popular girl beat me in a class election (I still think she bribed the student body). But this is college, so why not give politics the good old college try? Without rich parents or a photogenic smile, I decided I needed an "in" to the political happenings around me. I took the simplest job I could find, summarizing local government affairs for a small-time newspaper. There was no scandal, no eloquent expression of fundamental American beliefs, not even free refreshments. The most exciting part of my job was counting votes on budget referenda. Politics was out.
At this point, desperation began to sink in. I looked woefully to my bookshelf for somewhere to turn. Thoreau? Pond-side seclusion wouldn't work, since I don't much care for the taste of woodchuck. Poe? I unfortunately don't suffer from crippling depression. Melville? I get seasick. Nabokov? That's just disgusting. Ah, at last! Someone I can emulate?Hemingway. If anything could get me writing like the masters, it had to be that magic elixir of the authors, booze. I set to my project with great vigor and delight, but soon realized how difficult it really is to be a great author. My liver screamed in agony as countless bottles fell empty from my shaking, slowly numbing fingers. My jealous friends kept demanding that I stop: "Just think how you'll feel tomorrow!" I replied I'd feel wonderful! This was a small price to pay for greatness. Just as my Coleridge-esque euphoria of literacy set in, however, my memory failed. I woke up in a puddle of various liquid concoctions with a note pinned to my newly brownish-colored shirt: "I owe you $15 and a bag of chips. -Greg."
Having hobbled back to my dorm, I called the editors at the Orient to explain my situation. I had tried so hard to write something masterful for them, but failed miserably. I knew they were sticklers for deadlines, but had to ask their mercy. "That all sounds good," they said. "Write it out and send it in to us."
I cried when they said this. I really cried. I endured so much, trying to write something great, and they were ready to print a barely coherent rant ostensibly about a sequence of failures. Is this all it takes to be a writer? Get drunk and rant about how bad things are? The big secret to writing great stuff is being a bum? Fine, good, I'm gonna be a bum. Greg, if you're reading, I'll need that cash.
Jacob Daly is a member of the Class of 2009.