To write is to remake the world. The world isn't as noble as Cyrano, as brave as Achilles, or as selfless as Jesus. On the blank page, we are God on Monday. Writing is wish-fulfillment. It is an open letter posted on the doorsteps of all who read imploring us to love naively or to tell the truth when a lie could save us. On the page we see the men we could be, perhaps the men we ought to be. Then the books end and we're left in another world. One without fixed and stable meaning; without clear and distinct good and evil. We're left in our tiny studio apartments struggling with the trivial issues in our lives and eating too many white cheddar puffs.

Writers are singularly united by their discontent. A greater concentration of malcontents could never be found. But they repaint the drab walls of reality and ask for more when the world cries, "Enough." They are the miserably brave.

What starts as a flight of fancy and a private hope soon burrows into your psyche. Soon you might actually believe these titans of the page exist. What's more, you ought to be one. The guilt sets in and we resent our unheroic selves for being stunningly average lovers.

It is tempting to say that we are damaged by the unrealistic expectations created by these authors. I prefer to think that we'll meet the challenge. We are subpar lovers and cowards. Art calls on us in class when we blew off studying the night before to watch reality TV. Art says, "Hey, Fuckface. Figure it out. I accept no excuses and have no time for your bullshit."

I have a foolhardy faith in us. We will be the ones the next generation writes about. They won't need fiction. They'll have history.

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