Humor
The Art of Deception
So, this is where Harry Hogg hides out
What untruths has he told you? C’mon, don’t be afraid. The guy is a creative con artist. Oh, I know what you’re going to say: Harry Hogg, yeah, I read him, he’s just an old man we’ve become familiar with, that kind of thing, right? Interesting, predictable, mostly, but harmless.
Honestly, how many suckers are living on this site?
Does he come across as a romantic? Of course, he does, that’s his disguise. Just some romantic old guy. Jesus Christ, he’d have you believe he was a priest if he thought you folks on Medium were gullible enough.
Here’s the truth, he’s hardly ever a romantic, he doesn’t sleep a minute, has a thousand different faces and, in fact, is only a skeleton of his former self.
Which is probably a good thing.
The reality is he’s desperate, one inch from going over the edge. He wants you to love him, forgive him his literary weakness, and think well of him before he departs for the farthest edge of space.
You see, I know much more about Harry than any of you. How? Because I’m his editor, once friend, who listens to his promises of how he is going to deliver a great story, an epic! That’s what he says.
But know this, Harry Hogg’s charade will end. I will bring him a frightful pain.
Oh, yes, I know all about Harry Hogg. Harry always had this grand idea that one day he would write a novel, something to fill his days without the constant interruption of needing to look back on his life.
Ha! There’s a joke. The only fucking hero is the one he creates for himself— his alter ego.
Look, I’m not saying there aren’t times when he can make you feel pretty damn good. And, yes, Harry will transport you on his adventures of childhood, soaring on the heights of those early days, once again riding his genius for trouble, setting every sail, a boy for whom there was never a turning back.
To do or to die.
What hogwash, excuse the pun. He was a tricky little bastard, skipped school, spent days walking the shore. He made people so mad they got red in the face, chased him, battered him, but still he lied.
Did he improve with age, fuck no. He spent his youth crusading through the world’s torment, answering only to the poor, the hermit, the holy man, the lothario playing on a woman’s dreams, bathing in the feminine juices as if he were a butterfly in May, touching their tender membranes and sailing ever onward — untouchable.
Then, during the lateness of the hour, or that time when autumn winds are driving fallen leaves into gutters, he lost creative control.
The mortal sin of any writer.
It was a Sunday morning, once again staring out the window over the calm waters toward Inch Kenneth, he made the decision to end the creativity.
For six months, following his decision, he agonized over revenge. But he had already committed the crime of enjoying writing too much.
Revenge isn’t just sweet, its perfect.
He enjoyed killing his heroes, writing down their dying breath, seeing the blood stream from their mouths: what pleasure, what joy, what a death!
How many ways to die…
It was the revenge of this damn failure of a writer, more than his own death? Then, I thought of it, as his editor, I’d make him start over! Imagine his pain. The frustration, oh the agony.
He must not have an ability to favor one character. Any writer knows this, but not Harry. Oh no. Then finally, he woke up, she was his love, perfect, a woman for whom a man lives but one time. She is his affection, his strength, a winter’s ocean foam, the sound of summer, with a heart as romantic and wild as a storm, and right there — he ended it for her.
Ha ha, I thought, in a single paragraph, with no goodbye spoken, no warning, just the words, Harry wiped her from the page in four short sentences.
So, you friends of Harry Hogg, enjoy him while you can.
As his editor, I’m going to end his creativity, his love, his life. You’ll witness every change, every deception, every misguided truth without a clue where the story will end his mischief.
Just know this: I am the editor. I will end it for him, but only after he suffers the agony of starting over and making it right with all you people.
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