I’m the best writer that ever lived, and you wouldn’t even know it. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, or by the way I talked, dressed, or acted. You wouldn’t even know it if you read some of my stories, perused some of my published articles, or stared at some of the notes I’ve jotted down for the roleplaying game I run each week. If you knew nearly everything about me, you would still have no idea you were talking to the greatest writer you’d ever met. 

Well, it’s possible, at least. Isn’t it?

The reason you wouldn’t know is because while I only share my completed works with potential readers, I rarely finish any piece I start writing. I have thousands of stories, completely unwritten, because I only jot down a sentence or two. Most of the time, that’s all I need. The rest of the story is in my head; I don’t feel the desire to continue.

It’s not for lack of creativity that I do this. If you asked me to tell you the story, I could; forwards, backwards, and sideways, if you preferred. And it would be unlike any story you ever heard. (Well, mostly. If I didn’t include some familiar elements, you wouldn’t be able to relate. And no good story is completely original. Like I said, just mostly unlike anything you’ve ever heard.)

The thing is, I’m an “ideas person.” A “snippets guy.” I write buds; I write vignettes. Give me an idea, and I’ll write you a story; but, chances are, you might not like it. If you’re looking for closure, I’m not the person you want. I’m more interested in the aspects of a place, or the details of circumstance. Even my “completed” pieces don’t have endings. At least, not really. They’re almost always open-ended, and never end with “happily-ever-after.”

I think it’s because I don’t like “happily-ever-after”s. They’re not fun. They’re boring. Dull. Unreal. Life goes on, whether you, I, or anyone else likes it. So, most of my pieces are written as if they have sequels, but the sequels are never told. (This is, of course, provided that there is at least a definitive resolution to the prose I’ve crafted. Most works don’t even get that far.)

It gets worse. I’m so adverse to “happily-ever-after”s that I’m reluctant to even start a piece, let alone find a suitable ending. (There is one story I’ve written in particular that is so fantastic and incredible that I dare not write a single word of it down, for fear of ruining it.) Readers want closure; readers desire stories wrapped up in neat little packages, and if they aren’t, the reader wants to know what happens next. If every loose end isn’t tied up, the reader becomes uneasy.

People expect authors to create self-contained universes that work themselves out, and if they don’t, they’re labeled “hacks” or “amateurs.” In reality, modern authors have spoiled their readers, and have raised the bar of expectations so high that they can hang themselves from it with ropes they’ve created from their own words. It’s a grim analogy, but there’s some truth in it.

Give me Dickens, give me Lovecraft. Give me Woolf, give me Wilde. I want to know what happens next, and I want to be denied the answer. Deep down, I know others are the same way. Leave it up to the imagination to decide what comes next. Maybe, someday, if we’re lucky, we’ll find out what the author had in mind. But what you come up with in your own mind may be more fantastic than any of these authors could even dream of.

This is what a great writer does; they inspire our own creativity to come forth and fill in the gaps they left out. And if it means denying the reader some crucial detail or ending to a subplot, then so be it. It’s an artificial solution, but that doesn’t make it any less valid or “right.” A story snippet has so much more potential than a polished piece. The more we read, the more we find out about the specific story being told, but the price is losing that potential, the thought that the story could go anywhere at any point.

And if you ever ask me? I may tell you that one story I’ve never written down or told aloud, but know every detail intimately just the same. And you would probably agree; I am indeed the greatest writer you’ve ever met.

Or I may not.

That’s my gift to you.