Another day of writing lay ahead of Lawrence, the King Ghostwriter of Blurbs. He spilled the cereal into the glass bowl. He poured the milk. He made the coffee. He fed Geraldina, the elderly French Bulldog. He noticed a text from his friend at the publishing house.
"Need 15 blurbs by noon!"
"Well, shit," said King to the lavender walls.
He splashed some water on his unshaven face, then sat down and let the hyperbole stream forth.
"This collection is jaw-dropping. I picked my jaw up, drove myself to the hospital, and kept reading while I sat in the waiting room, holding my jaw in place."
"An epic novel. So goddamn epic that you might injure your ego reading it."
"A spellbinding, earth-shattering, soul-shaking thrill ride to the edge of sanity."
"Almost as satisfying as a pastrami sandwich."
"A kaleidoscopic wallop of word-spells."
"Peculiarly trance-inducing. As if written by a seagull on a cruise ship at dawn."
"A decent way to spend a few hours after dinner."
"Tender yet ruthless. Sidesplitting yet serious."
"A novel that contains something for everyone, but not quite enough for me."
"A fantastically baroque journey to the center of the psyche."
"Good enough for most."
"A harrowing read, full of hoots, gasps and claptrap."
"A desultory swim in the swamp of disillusionment."
"A high-wire act full of wit, devastation, levitation and annihilation."
"A ferocious yawn."
The King Ghostwriter of Blurbs pressed send on the email. Phew. Another day's worth of extreme wordsmithery to his friend at the publishing house to help keep the lights on.
Next, the King Ghostwriter of Blurbs took a shower and got to work writing his unending life's work. A single sentence whose word count now eclipsed one million. One day he would have to submit this to his friend for the edit of all edits. Maybe his friend would reply, "Good enough." Or maybe he'd die before sending the document at all. Maybe he would print it out and leave it all in a drawer for dramatic effect.