Digital Underground - uXu - Underground eXperts United #uxu-286

### ### ### ### ### #### ### ### ### #### ### ### ##### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ##### ### ### ########## ### ### ########## ### ### ### ### Underground eXperts United Presents... ####### ## ## ####### # # ####### ####### ####### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## ## #### ## ## #### # # ####### ####### ####### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## ## ## ## ## ####### ####### # # ####### ####### ####### [ Stigma ] [ By The GNN ] ____________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________ "STIGMA" by THE GNN/DualCrew-Shining/uXu Listen carefully, I am a successful novelist. I have written many books and I have made so much money that I have lost count. When I was twelve years old I wrote a short poem. I called it 'Stigma'. stigma by Eric Kane in another world no time will be to see what we have done no eyes to feed no pardon to beg for because words are no more I had of course written many others before this one. But when I sat there, alone in my room by my little desk, looking at the words I had written, I suddenly felt very special. My dream was to become a writer, a good writer. This poem was, in my eyes, the best thing I had ever done. I went down to the kitchen. It was in the evening and my mother was busy preparing supper. I handed the paper with my poem over to her. She said it was the best poem she had ever read. It came as no surprise. Then she told me to show it to my father. House of Kane was at that time the biggest publishing company in the country. My father owned it. He often came home very late, irritated and angry. This evening was no exception. The door opened and slammed shut with a bang. Dad was home. I gave him the poem, but he paid no attention to it. Instead, he placed the paper in his pocket and began talking about greedy writers and people without talent who dared to disturb him. My mother said nothing. She just listened and nodded. We sat down to eat. I watched my father. He kept on complaining on various things during the whole supper. When he was finished with the meal, he fished up a cigar from his pocket and leaned back in the chair, muttering. When he fumbled for his matches he found the paper in his pocket. He brought it up and examined it. My heart began to beat faster. He read the poem. Then he turned to me and asked if I had written it. I glanced at my mother and could see her smile. I said yes. My dad chuckled, then he tore the paper to pieces while saying that it was the worst piece of junk he had ever read. When I went to bed that night I felt very empty. Downstairs, I could hear my parents fight. My mother said that my father had ruined my life. He claimed that he read enough garbage at work and did not have to stand more at home. Even though my father had said that he hated my poem, I continued to write. I wrote poetry for a few more years, but after a while I got bored and began to explore prose instead. Three days after my twenty-seventh birthday, three years after my father had died, I finally got a letter from a publisher who wanted to buy my manuscript. It became a national best-seller and I made enough money to be able to work on my second book, which also sold very good. I thank my mother and my father for my success. Without them, I would still be writing poems like 'Stigma'. They taught me that writing is not about art or self-expression. It is about giving people what they want to read. When I wrote that poem I still thought that you should write things for your own pleasure, not caring about what other people thought. Now, I know that I was mistaken. Writing is about giving the audience what they want to read. I am now working on my fifth book. It will contain everything the masses want it to contain. I spend two hours every day with it. I hate those two hours. I do not understand why, because I have always dreamed of becoming a good writer. That dream is about to turn into a nightmare. I feel a burning pain every second I sit in front of the typewriter. Someone once told me that it was because of a deep stigma. God knows what he meant by that. But then, he was just a simple fool. I am a successful novelist, I ought to be able to find out the real truth some day. ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// Z.MAG@ZINE IS DEAD AND GONE! AND WE LOVE IT! HA HA HA! We don't care about your opinion. Beat this: THE STASH +46-13-ETC \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ What about the figures, what about the facts? --------------------------------------------------------------------------- uXu #286 Underground eXperts United 1995 uXu #286 Call THE TRUTH SAYER'S DOMAIN -> +1-210-493-9975 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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