Sometimes there are a family of deer who walk through my backyard. They usually bite the low-hanging trees. Have a munch or two. I watch them from my bedroom window and wonder how I will turn them into literature. What is the inherent sadness of the deer’s condition? Will they be hit by a car or shot the second they leave the property? There are no rules for deer. I don’t understand them. And yet, I must. Because Art.
How will these deer help me get laid? How will they get me adoration and the screams of youthful (yet appropriately aged) teenage girls? Or, on a higher level, what will get me a Pulitzer? Am I even eligible for a Pulitzer? I don’t think so. But maybe whatever these deer will reveal will be so achingly profound that rules of the Pulitzer will be cast aside, and the raging masses will shout, “Hang the rules! Give him the ‘zer!”
And I will get the ‘zer. All on account of these deer in my backyard. Alice Munro wrote about boring shit like that, right? And look where it got her. No, never mind, it’s not the deer who’ll win me the accolades, it was my observations of the deer that will get the prestige. That sounds better. In the end, it’s all me. They’ll forget what I said about Alice Munro after they hear what I have to say about the deer.
Frightened by my outrageously arrogant thoughts, the deer retreat from the lawn. They’d rather take their chances with rednecks with firearms and speeding pick-up trucks than an amateur writer and his secretly bloated ego.