by Kyle Curcio
Living in your own shadow is a terrible place to be...
It had been many years since Anton Weake had made waves.
He wallowed in the fact partly out of self-pity, but mostly because he felt that in this prolonged misery must lay the key to his next great achievement. His first book had taken him to heights of popularity that he had habitually shunned. In his obscurity, after all, had been his mystique. In his mystique, his genius. He was a true believer in the stereotypical tortured artist who, given the trials of normal life, fell far short in that department because he excelled so magnificently in what he did do right.
For a time, it had made him a literary giant. A star among stars and a wealthy man. But after fifteen years of living on past glories, with as severe a case of writer's block as he had known and the money running out, he was beginning to wonder if he had another one in him. Living in your own shadow is a terrible place to be. You don't even have somebody else to blame!
By his own reckoning, the depths to which he had sunk would be his salvation and he had thrown himself into that notion. Countless drug addled days and booze soaked nights had led him to his most brilliant work to date. His phone would ring again, yet!
But how to put it all together when it only made sense to him? How to make the everyman understand such timelessness? Such glory? Such insight?
He finished his vodka and put his head down on his arms to think on it.
"In other news today, reclusive one-time best selling author Anton Weake was found unresponsive this morning in a local motel surrounded by...rafts of blank papers. Now to you, Jim."