I Wouldn’t Change a Word

Now that I died, I feel like the wandering Mr. Scrooge. Going from store to store, searching for my name in people’s hands. You would think I would haunt my loved ones; family members, close friends, and lovers. But no. I want them to miss me for a bit, first. As for the lovers that mattered, I’m sure they’re waiting in hell once I’m finally dragged down below. As for now, here I am, at this bookstore. There’s this bald, non-binary, fluorescently-dressed person reading one of my books.

“Josue Ocampo was born in Modesto, California on February 25, 1989. He developed his love of writing while in third grade, and wrote the graduation speech for his fifth grade class. He said elementary school was a formative, unforgettable period in shaping his writing career.”

That is, mostly, correct. I started writing in the second grade, and unforgettable isn’t the appropriate word. Grueling; daunting; traumatizing. There we go. Fixed it.

“In high school, Josue wrote a feature-length play that was produced in a local community theatre. The play was inspired by his upbringing in a Mexican-American household and the struggles his own single mother went through. Josue described the experience as not only fulfilling, but inspirational in his future endeavors as a playwright and theatre director.”

Again, on paper, this sounds correct. I did grow up in a Mexican-American household, but I wasn’t inspired by mother’s struggles, as her only struggles were caused by her bad decision-making. If anything, my inspiration came directly from the telenovelas I would watch with my grandparents and the struggles of the selfless, empathetic, hardworking matriarchs featured in them. As for writing the play itself; I learned exactly what to avoid in a director or producer—type-A narcissists.

The bald, non-binary, fluorescently-dressed person put the book down as they moved onto another section. I completely understood them: I too found my writing boring more often than not.

Nonetheless, I felt compelled to wait for the next person curious to inquire about my life’s work; next was a slim, green-haired man in his mid-twenties. His eyes were brown, seemingly plotting; I was often accused of the same by people who knew very little and reveled in making jokes at my expense. Little did they know that a writer will get their revenge by turning them into the victim in their next novel.

“Ocampo wrote his first gay erotic slasher in COVID. He attributed the isolation of the pandemic as a blessing in disguise, giving him the opportunity to shift his focus from playwriting to novels.” Yes, COVID was the perfect breeding ground for any writers, especially heartbroken ones. It wasn’t the isolation from friends and family that ate away at my spirit as I sat, day and night for countless months, staring at my laptop, alone; it was the idea of the man I loved at that moment flying away halfway across the country to be with the man he actually loved, or pretended to love. Anger, hate, vengeance—these simmering emotions fueled my first ever gay erotic slasher that took two years to even see the light of day much less a bookshelves at a hipster bookstore.

The slim, green-haired man started skimming through the pages of the book, eyes widening with morbid curiosity. Perhaps he was the one I looked for in life. To create everything with, together. At least we could bond over my cynical, nihilistic writing style as he fixated on the first page.

“Ocampo published his first gay romance in 2035, after a ten-year writing hiatus. Misery Becomes Them was, in Ocampo’s words, a love letter to the gay community’s struggles with depression and sense of belonging. From all his work, Misery Becomes Them remains Ocampo’s best-seller, selling over two-million copies worldwide.”

From all my writing pieces, Misery Becomes Them was the piece I loathed; it betrayed everything I stood for and that I promised I’d never succumb to. It was a love story with a tragic ending; a gay protagonist that comes full-circle by starring his journey in loneliness, and ending his journey alone, but no longer entirely lonely. He found beauty in his depression because for the first time in his life, he had someone worth being depressed over, in life and death. Who would have thought my biggest betrayal would become my greatest success.

The slim, green-haired man proceeded to check out. I followed him. What else did I have to do. He wasn’t the chattiest man as he pulled out his wallet to pay, but neither was the cashier—that whole store had a petulant air of people who thought they were above their pay grade despite being living in a metropolitan city on mommy and daddy’s dollar. As he paid, I managed to catch a glimpse of my newest fan’s ID—his name was Rick.

Rick’s apartment reminded me of my very first apartment; it was small, with a mattress laid on the floor, a coffee cup next to it, and no furniture aside from his laptop on the counter. He was a minimalist. There was one other thing, another book, next to Rick’s copy of Misery Becomes Them: Wherewithal. Wherewithal was a book I wrote when life felt unimpressive, and from all my works, the profits from it were also unimpressive. Nevertheless, it was one of my most enjoyable projects. I was unemployed and artistically aimless when my mind wandered as I wrote page after page in that book. I self-published it online and that was it. I never thought it’d see the light of day aside from close friends.

“Ocampo wrote Wherewithal in a moment of absolute peace in his life; he notes that he neither felt stressed to finish the book nor the wherewithal to write it. In Ocampo’s own words, it remains his most unambitious and fulfilling work.” Every word of that biography was correct. I wouldn’t change a word.

As I looked around, I looked over at Rick’s open laptop. Reflected on the screen was a blank word document with only one sentence written across it…”I chose Josue Ocampo for my senior thesis because he’s been my writing inspiration for over five years now..” I sat and looked at Rick as he laid on the mattress, looking up at the ceiling for almost ten minutes, not touching his phone or any of my books once. He looked aimlessly, but peacefully. The most peaceful I had seen him since I first laid eyes on him. Without warning, he stood, made his way to his laptop, and started typing.  He wrote and wrote as ten minutes became twenty, then thirty, then three hours. As I read what he wrote, I thought to myself.

         I wouldn’t change a word.