“This is the cleverest thing anyone has ever written,” beamed Martin, looking at the story he’d just finished writing. He felt like he’d had the single greatest idea of all time, the most original of original thoughts, and that he’d captured the concept perfectly using all the right words in the right places.
What had actually written, however, was a story about a writer who was trying to come up with an idea for a story to write. It was the oldest idea in the world, as clichéd as you can get when you’re stuck for ideas. A writer coming up with this idea wasn’t coming up with an idea at all.
It didn’t help that Martin couldn’t spell, either. He grammar also left something to be desired. The man couldn’t string together a coherent sentence if you’d given him a Magnetic Poetry kit, numbered the pieces and told him to arrange them in order. He had all of the creativity of a particularly untalented carton of milk.
Still, for one moment it made him feel really clever. Even if he had misspelled his own name.
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