What is Good Writing?

To Philip Roth,

Not that I necessarily want to turn this into the me-myself-and-I-hour but give me a moment, a brief second here to open this up and turn it on. I have something I’d like to read you. Just a second. Okay. Ahem.

He slips the white cotton t-shirt from under his back and over his head, his eyes toward the ceiling. The catalogue of stand-bys comes through as a fragmented, looping nickelodeon. The pornolodeon, he thinks, half-laughing—silently or figuratively, not literally of course, as this would surely ruin the moment for sure—as a dark-haired woman takes her considerable breasts and wraps them around his formidable cock. The formidable purple-pink head pokes from betwixt the considerable cleavage far enough to insert itself into a welcoming mouth at a rhythmic pulse of 4/4 time. You can tap the beat out with your toes. Poke two three four. Poke two three four.

POV shifts from first-person to third-person as a chiseled figure with blasé tribal tattoos lifts the dark-haired woman up underneath her arms and places her lengthwise upon a double-size mattress with green sheets and a blue and white checkered comforter. His green sheets. His blue and white checkered comforter. The woman coos and opens her legs and the chiseled tattooed figure groans, aiming his spear for direct contact. A bulls-eye.

He loops the images of the breasts, the cock, the legs, the looks, the breasts, the cock, the legs, the looks—rubbing his thatched mons pubis with his left hand and working his—formidable?—cock with his right, the small mouth of the blind head closing, opening, and closing ad nauseum unto death. The inevitable happens, of course, and semen is expelled—as has been memorized by rote—into the darkness of the room, onto forearms, upper thighs, lower stomach, et al. He rolls over onto his side, satiated, and snores the hours of early morning, mouth open in no doubt a ghastly, reptilian expression. End scene.

What’re you gonna do with that then?

I don’t know. Try to publish it I suppose.

Really?

Yeah, why? You don’t think so?

I don’t know. It’s not really any good.

No?

No.

No?

An extended pause, eyes toward the ceiling, considering. Finally—decidedly—no.

by Joel Kopplin

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