a literary agent finally replies to your query. they want a synopsis, the first 50 pages of your manuscript, and the last 10 years of your life.
you buy a book and never get around to reading it. you buy another book you never read. you buy another. three months later your living room is full of books. later that year your house is crammed with books. there are so many books. you are lost in a labyrinth of books. you are lost.
you go on your goodreads' author profile and discover there are nine editions of you. you kindly ask a goodreads librarian to merge all these editions into one. that night you have a nightmare that you are at a banquet, but the only dish on the table is you. you eat every bite. the next morning you feel like a million bucks.
you tell a fan that you put "a little piece of your soul" into every book you write. the countryside is now littered with thousands of your horcruxes. you are unkillable.
they say "write what you know," so you open your manuscript and type "i know the true name of god." your head is filled with deafening utterances in an alien language. you are driven insane. it is Tuesday.
you discover the secret to eternal life: procrastinating your own death.
you find a book signed by Neil Gaiman at the airport & buy it. when you get home you look out the window and see Neil standing in the woods. watching. motionless. the wind tousles his glorious mane. three days later he is standing over you when you wake. "you have my book," Neil solemnly states. no one hears your scream.