The Importance of Starting at the End
I began my illustrious writing career humbly enough. I heard it wise to start with the end in mind–to fix myself on a goal. So, naturally, that’s what I did.
The room where I write, the desk where I sit, the window from which I stare for inspiration–they were all sure to be memorialized one day–no? I chose wisely–an area large enough to be cordoned off by velvet ropes or electrical tape neatly lining the floor. An area where visitors hungry to see where the master worked, could file in toe to heel, for just a glance at history.
I sometimes think about moving my desk, but on second thought consider what a fraud that might perpetrate on my adoring public. They're sure to picture me sitting at the desk, toiling away on whichever of my award-winning, best-selling novels happened to be their favorite (assuming they could choose) and they'd be totally hoodwinked by the fact I'd moved my workstation to the opposite corner sometime in the middle of my career. It would be a travesty someone of my future stature could not accept. It made me wonder about all those historical house tours: Monticello, Mount Vernon, The Hermitage, and whether our forefathers felt the same restrictions to their interior decorating–if Martha always wanted to throw out George's rickety old roll-top with the wobbly leg in lieu of a brand new Louis XIV or, better yet, an adjustable standup desk she'd heard Mr. Franklin may be close to completing.
I needed to know more. How expensive is floor to ceiling plexiglass? Is wax still the preferred medium for full-size human replicas? Where should I place all my porn so that it doesn't distract from my greatness but still gives people a glimpse at the complexities of genius? And there was a lot to work out. What would be a fair but adequate admission price, even with the national endowment and lengthy list of philanthropic donors? How was I to know what havoc inflationary pressures would rain down in a thousand years and beyond? Certainly the upkeep of the home, the installations, the grounds, twenty-four-seven security, and my many generations of descendants by that point, are virtually incalculable.
And there is another complication. My wife. She is a budding artist. Her landscapes and abstracts have a small audience now, but that's unlikely to last. And sure, her basement studio is far enough away from my office that her groups, for the most part, may not interfere with mine–but what about all the common areas? There would always be a danger of her tours intersecting my tours in the kitchen, the living room, the first floor powder room. Luckily, I have a solution–since I let her cook most of the meals and I am often relegated to sleeping on the downstairs couch, I suggest we claim exclusivity over our respective territories. It's a shame, but my fans will just have to imagine what I looked like standing over the sink sneaking a third helping of coffee cake before washing the evidence down the drain.
The more I think about it, the more overwhelming it gets. Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a writer. Maybe I should just stick to my day job. Do they have museums for self-proclaimed specialists in search optimization?
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