She snarled in rage as her mail box pinged. Her minions just did not get it. She would have fired them except for the fact that they gave her their service willingly, freely, without seeking anything from her in return. They were grateful enough that she glanced at them with her limpid eyes, that she deigned to acknowledge their very existence with a smile. They were not capable of independent thought, they needed her guidance to help them discover what their story was. It was only under her tutelage that their stories would, could, should emerge.
Which was why she could not understand why they were clamouring in her defence. She was an acclaimed writer with awards to her name. She wielded her words with the skill and precision of a gifted surgeon. Her words were scalpels. Designed and intended to draw blood with every incision, every cut.
So why were they defending her? Did they not realise they were demeaning her craft by daring to infer that she, a master artisan, had spoken words she did not mean? That her words had been taken out of context?
She was not on Twitter or Facebook. There was no need. Her fans informed her about every word written about her. Whether or not her name was mentioned. They were exasperating. These minions. But they had their uses. They clogged up her mailbox, but they were undiscovered geniuses. And it was up to her to shine her beatific light upon them, so that they too might bask in her reflected glory.
Her mail box pinged again. Her treasure trove. She read, and fluttered her eyelashes as she smiled. Recognition. As was her due.
Thanks for stopping by .