A writer John B. tried for years to get noticed in the field of literature. Alas, there was so much content floating about in the literary world at the time that he could not attract anyone’s attention. Then he went silent and dropped out of the scene, and the few readers who had read his work, wondered about him – after all, he had written just like everyone else, perhaps even better on occasion, so why had he given up the art?
After a lapse of several years, news articles began to appear on the Internet: “John B nominated for the Barnabus Quigly award”, “John B shortlisted for the Zacharia Parsimonious award for literature”, “John B wins Maria Batholo literary award for fiction.” Success followed with the manuscripts that he had toiled away at for many years, and left to rot in filing cabinets, being dragged out by duelling publishers throwing ridiculous sums of money to win his work at auctions. John B did not have to write a single word during this astronomical phase of his career for he had so much unpublished material to last for years. When his final book was launched, John B grandly announced his retirement (he was fearful that he would be called upon to write again, something he could not do anymore or would perform very poorly at for not having exercised his talents over the years, and for having emptied his creative reservoir and neutered it with the excessive drinking that followed his success). Retirement brought more fame for his oeuvre was now a finite rarity and the highest literary honours in the world were piled upon him.
Following John B’s literary coronation in a cold North European capital, an interviewer asked if his rise to immortality had been due to his winning those early literary awards. Being somewhat inebriated, anxious to unburden himself, and frankly not giving a damn anymore, John replied, “You mean Barnabus Quigly, Zachariah Parsi…parsimonius and that Maria woman? I just made those up.”
