David sat at his writing desk, the afternoon sun shining in across the lawn, irritating his eyes and causing him to squint as he focused on the screen before him. He’d written a couple novels and more than a fair share of short stories at that desk, which granted him a small, but notable reduction in obscurity, which he, not being an egregious yelling prick, white trash, or sex icon, considered fair enough. Most of those who had heard of him attended MFA programs and set about the same task of publishing works in journals whose readership number in the hundreds of, well, in the hundreds. Yet, for some reason, one David couldn’t fathom, this following had convinced his agent to sell his autobiography, which he had neglected to ever indicate he hadn’t written. So, instead of walking with his dog by the lake, he fidgeted in his chair waiting for the inspiration to strike. Beside him he had a number of notable autobiographies, and he, when tired of squinting would look down to the floor where his copy of the first volume of Twain kept an eclectic assortment of paper, bills, and what appeared to be outdated coupons from blowing away when the fan turned past.
He tapped out a title, shook his head, deleted it, and let the cursor sit blinking again. Surely, his agent would understand the pressures of an autobiography. Hadn’t Twain mercifully failed in numerous attempts before taking up yakking at a stenographer? Maybe he could convince the publisher to spring for one, a young lady, something pleasant on the eyes of an old man. Nothing sexual, he could repress that desire, even if it were natural, but to have it to repress, he figured, would put a new spring in his step and it would be nice to have somebody to chit-chat with over tea. The kids never called enough anymore, and they always wanted to talk about the grandkids accomplishments at finger painting, never the state of society, never anything profound. Even if the publishers wouldn’t, there was bound to be some kid in the local English Department who would consider the job to be worth their while if he read some of their sordid prose and gave them an occasional biscuit.
He glanced down to Twain, his white hair and bushy mustache staring back. That was it. If he was going to lie anyways, he might as well be honest. Across the top he scrawled, “I’m Probably Just Going to Lie to You: The Embellished Autobiography of David Rooker, Accomplished Liar.”