How not to win a Pulitzer—or friends
In a dimly lit corner of New York, hidden among pubs where even the rats had given up on life, stood a building that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought depression was an architectural style.
This was the Scribes’ Sanctuary, a collective so exclusive it was just this side of imaginary, filled with writers who believed suffering was just another word for creativity.
One day, a letter arrived, its origins as shadowy as a politician’s search history. It promised an opportunity so grand even the most cynical of the lot paused their existential brooding. A collaborative novel, titled The Final Draft, was to be crafted under the guidance of one E. Wharton.
No, not the long-dead novelist, but someone who claimed to be just as good, if not better, because she was still breathing.
The catch? Each writer had to submit a chapter anonymously. The project was so secretive, not even the CIA could take notes. The building was abuzz with the kind of excitement usually reserved for a group of vegans discovering a new type of kale.
Months passed in a flurry of manic typing, existential dread, and enough coffee consumption to make a barista weep. Writers whispered about their masterpieces, each believing they were penning the next War and Peace, or at least something that wouldn’t be used to prop up a wobbly table.
Finally, the submission day arrived. April 1st. Only it was like Christmas—if Santa was the Grinch and all you got was shattered dreams. The air was thick with expectations and fear. They sent off their chapters and waited. And waited. If waiting were an Olympic sport, they’d have won gold.
The brooding silence was finally broken when a package arrived. The Final Draft, it proclaimed, in a cover so bland it made oatmeal look exciting. Inside, the pages were blank. All except one, which bore a letter from the elusive E. Wharton.
Dear Would-Be Hemingways,
Congratulations! You’ve completed The Final Draft. But surprise! The real project wasn’t about writing — it was about finding the humor in the absurdity of our egos. Think of it as a prank show, but classier, because we use serif fonts.
You’ve all been so busy trying to out-miserable each other for the sake of art, you forgot writing can actually be fun. Yes, fun! Remember laughter? That thing you do when you’re not brooding over a keyboard?
I wanted to show you that the pursuit of literary fame is as ridiculous as expecting a cat to pay rent. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey — especially if the journey involves realizing you’ve been part of an elaborate literary joke.
Keep writing, but maybe this time, do it with a smile. Or at least without the look of someone who’s just smelled something foul. That’s just your pretentiousness.
Cheers,
E. Wharton (No, not that one)
The room went silent.
The kind of silence usually reserved for the moment before a comedian drops the punchline. And then, uproarious laughter filled the air. The writers realized they’d been so caught up in their own narratives of suffering and ambition that they’d missed the point entirely.
The Final Draft debacle became legendary among writers—a reminder not to take ourselves too seriously. They returned to their tables, this time penning stories filled with the kind of wit and humor even Sarah Silverman would approve of.
Proving once again, that the greatest joke of all might just be on those who forget to laugh at themselves.
And somewhere, the real—or not — E. Wharton chuckled, her point made. Because in the end, isn’t life just the universe’s way of telling us not to be such pompous arses?
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